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THE LIBRARY OF THE 
UNIVERSITY OF 
NORTH CAROLINA 
AT CHAPEL HILL 


ENDOWED BY THE 
DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 


00008755894 


This book is due at the WALTER R. DAVIS LIBRARY on 
the last date stamped under ‘“‘Date Due.” If not on hold it 
may be renewed by bringing it to the library. 


DATE DATE 


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P. 268. 


‘**T am your brother,’ Malcolm repeated.” 


THE WS 


Sex. QOUIS OF LOSSIE 


BY 


GEORGE MAC DONALD, LL.D. MSY 


6b 7 bb I OG 


AUTHOR OF ‘* DAVID ELGINBROD, 
HOWGLEN,”’ ‘‘ 


ROBERT FALCONER, ALEC FORBES OF 
ANNALS OF A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD,”’ ETC., ETC. 


NEW YORK 
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS 


g LAFAYETTE PLACE 


GEORGE MACDONALD’S NOVELS. 


“A mine of original and quaint stmilitudes. Thetr 
deep perceptions of human nature are certainly remarka- 
ble.” —THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. 


With illustrations on wood and steel. Being the First Col- 
lected Uniform Edition of this Author's Writings. 21 
volumes, r2mo. cloth, in box. Per set, $31.50.. Half calf 
extra, Per set, $63.00, Cloth, per volume, $1.50. 


Annals of a Quiet Neighborhood. 

The Seaboard Parish. A Sequel to Annals of a Quiet Neigh- 
borhood. 

Guild Court. A London Story. 

Alec Forbes of Howglen. 

Robert Falconer. 

The Vicar’s Daughter. An Autobiographical Story. 

Paul Faber, Surgeon. 

Thomas Wingfold, Curate. 

Wilfrid Cumbermede. An Autobiographical Story. 

Sir Gibbie. 

St. George and St. Michael. A Novel. 

; The Portent. A Story. 


Phantastes. A Faerie Romance for Men and Women. 
David Elginbrod. 
Adela Cathcart. 
Malcolm, 
The Marquis of Lossie. 
Warlock O’ Glenwarlock. A Homely Romance. 
Mary Marston. 
Weighed and Wanting. 
Donal Grant. 
Stephen Archer, 


GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS, 


g LAFAYETTE PLACE, NEw York. 


tae 
<a 


AD oa ee ee 


CONDENTS: 


Chap. 
J.—THE STABLE-YARD , * ‘ 
II.—THE LIBRARY “4 ‘ P 


III.—Miss Horn 
IV.—KELPIE’s AIRING , ‘ 


V.—Lizzy FINDLAY < : 


VI.—MR CRATHIE ° < ‘ 
VII.—BLvuE PETER . ‘ ’ 
VIII. Beer icr TO LONDON ‘ ' 
IX.—LONDON STREETS . : 5 
X.—THE TEMPEST 2 - 
XI.—DEMON AND THE PIPES ., ‘ 
XIJ.—A New LIBRARY . ‘ Q 
XIII.—Two CONVERSATIONS ‘ 5 
XIV.—FLORIMEL . ° ‘ ? 
XV.—PORTLOSSIE . ‘ « 
XVI.—ST JAMES THE APOSTLE , 3 

| XVII.—A DIFFERENCE : ‘ ‘ 
XVIII.—Lorp LIFTORE : ‘ « 
XIX.—KELPIE IN LONDON ‘ ‘ 
XX.—BLUE PETER . ; ° 
XXI.—MR GRAHAM ; ‘ ° 
XXII.—RICHMOND PARK . : : 


XXI[I.—PAINTER AND GROOM P . 


vi CONTENTS. 


Chap. 
XXIV.—A LADY . = 


XXV.—THE PsyCHE ‘ 
XXVI.—THE SCHOOLMASTER _, 
XXVII.—THE PREACHER . : 
XXVIII.—THE PoRTRAIT , 
XXIX.—AN EvIL OMEN . 
XXX.—A QUARREL . , 
XXXI.—TuHE Two DaImMons 
AXXII.—A CHASTISEMENT 4 
XXXIII.—LIEs . . 
XXXIV.—AN OLD ENEMY . ; 
XXXV.—THE EVIL GENIUS , 
XXXVI.—CONJUNCTIONS . 
XXXVII.—AN INNOCENT PLOT ' 
XXXVIII.—THE JouRNEY . 
XX XIX.—DIscIPLINE 5 
XL.—MooNLIGHT . 
XLI.—THE Swirt ; ; 
XLIT.—StT Ronan’s WELL , 
XLITI.—A PERPLEXITY . 
XLIV.—THE MIND OF THE AUTHOR 
XLV.—THE RIDE Home ° 
XLVI.—PorRTLAND PLACE . 
XLVII.—PorTLOSSIE AND SCAURNOSE 
XLVITI.—TortTure ° . 
XLIX.—THE PHILTRE , ° 
L.—THE DEMONESs AT BAY, 
LI.—THE Psycue . 
LII.—Horr Cuaret , 
LIII.—A New Puri, , 
LIV.—TuE Fey Factor 


CONTENTS, 


Chap. 
LV.—THE WANDERER . 
LVI.—MID-ocEAN . 
LVII.—TuHE SHORE ‘ 


LVIII.—TueE TRENCH . 
LIX.—THE PEACEMAKER . 
LX.—AN OFFERING . 
LXI.—THOUGHTs , A 
LXII.—THE DUNE. 
LXIII.—ConrFrEssIon OF SIN 
LXIV.—A VISITATION ° 
LXV.—THE EVE OF THE CRISIS 
LXVI.—SEA ° ° 
Bexvit-suore ..-. 


LXVIII.—THE CREW OF THE BONNIE ANNIE 


LXIX.—Lizzy’s BABY ; 
LXX.—THE DISCLOSURE . 
LXXI.—THE ASSEMBLY A 
LXXII.—KNoTTED STRANDS 


ae 


HOHE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


CHAPTER I. 
THE STABLE-YARD. 


It was one of those exquisite days that come in every winter, in ~ 
which it seems no longer the dead body, but the lovely ghost of 
summer. Such a day bears to its sister of the happier time 
something of the relation the marble statue bears to the living 
form; the sense it awakes of beauty. is more abstract, more 
ethereal ; it lifts the soul into a higher region than will summer 
day of lordliest splendour. It is like the love that loss has 
purified. 

Such, however, were not the thoughts that at the moment 
occupied the mind of Malcolm Colonsay. Indeed, the loveliness 
of the morning was but partially visible from the spot where he 
stood—the stable-yard of Lossie House, ancient and roughly 
paved. It was a hundred years since the stones had been last re- 
laid and levelled: none of the horses of the late Marquis minded it 


’ but one—her whom the young man in Highland dress was now 


grooming—and she would have fidgeted had it been an oak floor. 
The yard was a long and wide space, with two storied buildings 
on all sides of it. In the centre of one of them rose the clock, 
and the morning sun shone red on its tarnished gold. It was 
an ancient clock, but still capable of keeping good time—good 
enough, at least, for all the requirements of the house, even when 
the family was at home, seeing it never stopped, andthe church 
clock was always ordered by it. 

It not only set the time, but seemed also to set the fashion of 
the place, for the whole aspect of it was one of wholesome, 
weather-beaten, time-worn existence. One of the good things 
that accompany good blood is that its possessor does not much 
mind a shabby coat. ‘Tarnish and lichens and water-wearing, a — 
wavy house-ridge, and a few families of worms in the wainscot 

A 


2 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


do not annoy the marquis as they do the city man who has just 
bought a little place in the country. When an old family ceases 
to go lovingly with nature, I see no reason why it should go any 


_ longer. An old tree is venerable, and an old picture precious to 


the soul, but an old house, on which has been laid none but 
loving and respectful hands, is dear to the very heart. Even an 
old barn door, with the carved initials of hinds and maidens of 
vanished centuries, has a place of honour in the cabinet of the 
poet’s brain. It was centuries since Lossie House had begun to 


grow shabby—and beautiful; and he to whom it now belonged 


was not one to discard the reverend for the neat, or let the vanity 
of possession interfere with the grandeur of inheritance. 

Beneath the tarnished gold of the clock, flushed with the red 
winter sun, he was at this moment grooming the coat of a power- 
ful black mare. ‘That he had not been brought up a groom was 
pretty evident from the fact that he was not hissing; but that he 
was Marquis of Lossie there was nothing about him to show. 
The mare looked dangerous. Every now and then shecast back 
a white glance of the i visible eye. But the youth was on his 
guard, and as wary as fearless in his handling of her. When at 
length he had finished the toilet which her restlessness—for her 
four feet were never all still at once upon the stones—had con 
siderably protracted, he took from his pocket a lump of sugar, 
and held it for her to bite at with her angry-looking teeth. 

It was a keen frost, but in the sun the icicles had begun to 
drop. ‘The roofs in the shadow were covered with hoar frost ; 
wherever there was shadow there was whiteness. But for all the 
cold, there was keen life in the air, and yet keener life in the two 
animals, biped and quadruped. 

As they thus stood, the one trying to sweeten the other’s rela 
tion to himself, if he could not hope much for her general temper, 
a man, who looked half farmer, half lawyer, appeared on the 
opposite side of the court in the shadow. 

“You are spoiling that mare, MacPhail,” he cried. 

“TI canna weel du that, sir; she canna be muckle waur,” said 
the youth. 

“It’s whip and spur she wants, not sugar.” 

“She has had, and sall hae baith, time aboot (i turn), and 
I houp they'll du something for her in time, sir.” 

“Her time shall be short here, anyhow. She’s not worth the — 
sugar you give her.” , 

_ “Eh, sir! luik at her,” said Malcolm, in a tone of expostula- 
tion, as he stepped back a few paces and regarded her with — 
admiring eyes. “Saw ye ever sic legs? an’ sic a neck? an’ sic 


THE STABLE-VARD. 3 


a heid? an’ sic fore an’ hin’ quarters? She’s a’ bonny but the 
temper o’ her, an’ that she canna help like the likes o’ you an’ 
me. 79 

‘She'll be the death 0’ somebody some day. ‘The sooner we 
get rid of her the better. Just look at that,” he added, as the 
mare laid back her ears au made a vicious snap at nothing i in 
particular. 

*«She was a favourite o’ my—maister, the marquis,” returned 
the youth, “‘an’ I wad ill like to pairt wi’ her.” 

““T'll take any offer in reason for her,” said the factor. ‘You'll 
just ride her to Forres market next week, and see what you can 
get for her. I do think she’s quieter since you took her in 
hand.” 

“T’m sure she is—but it winna laist a day. The moment I 
lea’ her, she'll be as ill’s ever,” said the youth. “She has a kin’ 
0’ a likin’ to me, ’cause I gi’e her stigar, an’ she canna cast me; 


. but she’s no a bit better 7’ the hert o’ her yet. She’s an oon- 


sanctifeed brute. I cudna think o’ sellin’ her like this,” 

“Lat them ’at buys tak’ tent (deware),” said the factor. 

“Ow ay! lat them; I dinna objec’; gien only they ken what 
she’s like afore they buy her,” rejoined Malcolm. 

The factor burst out laughing. To his judgment the youth 
had spoken like an idiot. 

“Well not send you to sell,” he said. “Stoat shall go with 
you, and you shall have nothing to do but hold the mare and 
your own tongue.” 

“Sir,” said Malcolm, seriously, ‘‘ ye dinna mean what ye say? 
Ye said yersel’ she wad be the deith o’ somebody, an’ to sell her 
ohn tell’t what she’s like wad be to caw the saxt comman’ment 
clean to shivers.” 


“That may be good doctrine 7 the kirk, my lad, but it’s pure 


heresy i the horse-market. No, no! You buy a horse as you 
take a wife—for better for worse, as the case may be. A woman’s 
not bound to tell her faults when a man wants to marry her. If 
she keeps off the worst of them afterwards, it’s all he has a ey ; 
to look for.” 

Hoot, sir! there’s no a pair o’ parallel lines in a’ the com- 
pairison,” returned Malcolm. “Mistress Kelpie here ’s e’en ower 
ready to confess her fauts, an’ that by giein’ a taste o’ them; she 
winna bide to be speired ; but for haudin’ aff o’ them efter the 
bargain’s made—ye ken she’s no even responsible for the bargain. © 
An’ gien ye expec’ me to haud my tongue aboot them—faith, 
Maister Crathie, I wad as sune think o’ ‘sellin’ a rotten boat to. 
Blue Peter. Gien the man ’at has her to see till, dinna ken ta 


: THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


-luik oot for a storm o’ iron shune or lang teeth ony moment, his 
wife may be a widow that same market nicht. An’ forbye, it’s 
again’ the aucht comman’ment as weel’s the saxt. There's nae 
exception there in regaird o’ horse flesh. We maun be honest 1 
that as weel’s i’ corn or herrin’, or onything ither ’at ’s coft an 
sell’t atween man ar’ his neibor.” ess 

“There’s one commandment, my lad,” said Mr Crathie, with 
the dignity of intended rebuke, “you seem to find hard to learn, 
and that is, to mind your own business.” 

- “Gien ye mean catchin’ the herrin’, maybe ye’re richt,” said the 
youth. “I ken mair aboot that nor the horse-coupin’, and it’s 
full cleaner.” 

“None of your impudence!” returned the factor. ‘‘ The 
marquis is not here to uphold you in your follies. That they 
amused him is no reason why I should put up with them. So 
keep your tongue between your teeth, or you'll find it the worse 
for you.” 

The youth smiled a little oddly, and held his peace. 

“Vou’re here to do what I tell you, and make no remarks,” 
added the factor. 

“T’m awaur o that, sir—within certain leemits,” returned 
Malcolm. 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“JT mean within the leemits o’ duin’ by yer neibor as ye wad 
hae yer neibor du by you—that’s what I mean, sir.” 

“Tve told you already that doesn’t apply in horse-dealing. 
Every man has to take care of himself in the horse-market: that’s 
understood. If you had been brought up amongst horses instead 
of herrtng, you would have known that as well as any other man.” 
“J doobt I'll ha’e to gang back to the herrin’ than, sir, for 

they’re like to pruv’ the honester o’ the twa. But there’s nae 
hypocrisy in Kelpie, an’ she maun ha’e her day’s denner, come 
0’ the morn’s what may.” 

At the word AyZocrisy, Mr Crathie’s face grew red as the sun 
ina fog. He was an.elder of the kirk, and had family worship 
every night as regulaly as his toddy. So the word was as offen- 
sive and insolent as it was foolish and inapplicable. He would 
have turned Malcolm adrift on the spot, but that he remembered 
—not the favour of the late marquis for the lad—that was nothing 
to the factor now: his lord under the mould was to him as 
if he had never been above it—but the favour of the present 
marchioness, for all in the house knew that she was interested in 
ae Choking down therefore his rage and indignation, he said 
sternly : | 


i pe eee ee 

Sor Nae Ae Byte ges A 

hy Why | 3 
Cae 


THE STABLE-VARD. 5 


“Malcolm, you have two enemies—a long tongue, and a strong 
conceit. You have little enough to be proud of, my man, and 
the less said the better. I advise you to mind what you're about, 
and show suitable respect to your superiors, or as sure as judg- 
ment you'll go back to fish-guts.” 

While he spoke, Malcolm had been smoothing Kelpie all over 
with his palms ; the moment the factor ceased talking, he ceased 
stroking, and with one arm thrown over the mare’s back, looked 
him full in the face. 

““Gien ye imaigine, Maister Crathie,” he said, ‘‘’at I coont it 
ony rise 1 the warl’ ’at brings me un’er the orders o’ man less 
honest than he micht be, ye’re mista’en. I dinna think it’s pride 
this time; I wad ile Blue Peter’s lang butes till him, but I winna 
lee for ony factor atween this an’ Davy Jones.” 

It was too much. Mr Crathie’s feelings overcame him, and he 
was a wrathful man to see, as he strode up to the youth with 
clenched fist. 

“ Haud frae the mere, for God’s sake, Maister Crathie,” cried 
Malcolm. 

But even as he spoke, two reversed Moorish arches of gleam- 
ing iron opened on the terror-quickened imagination of the factor 
a threatened descent from which his most potent instinct, that of 
self-preservation, shrank in horror. He started back white with 
dismay, having by a bare inch of space and a bare moment of 
time, escaped what he called Eternity. Dazed with fear he turned 
and had staggered half-way across the yard, as if going home, before 
he recovered himself. Then he turned again, and with what 
dignity he could scrape together said— 

“ MacPhail, you go about your business.” 

In his foolish heart he believed Malcolm had made the brute 
strike out. 

“IT canna weel gang till Stoat comes hame,” answered Mal- 
colm. 

“If I see you about the place after sunset, ’ll horsewhip you,” 
said the factor, and walked away, showing the crown of his hat. © 

Milcolm again smiled oddly, but made ne-reply. He undid 
the mare’s halter, and took her into the stable. There he fed 
her, standing by her all the time she ate, and not once taking 
his eyes off her. His father, the late marquis, had bought her at 
the sale of the stud of a neighbouring laird, whose whole being 
had been devoted to horses, till the pale one came to fetch him- 
self: the men about the stable had drugged her, and, taken with — 
the splendid lines of the animal, nor seeing cause to doubt her 
temper as she quietly obeyed the halter, he had bid for her, and, 


26: THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


as he thought, had her a great bargain. The accident that 
~ finally caused his death followed immediately after, and while he 


was ill no one cared to vex him by saying what she had turned 
out. But Malcolm had even then taken her in hand in the hope 
of taming her a little before his master, who often spoke of his 
latest purchase, should see her again. In this he had very 
partially succeeded ; but if only for the sake of him whom he 
now knew for his father, nothing would have made him part with 
the animal. Besides, he had been compelled to use her with so 
much severity at times that he had grown attached to her from 
the reaction of pity as well as from admiration of her physical 
qualities, and the habitude of ministering to her wants and com- 


forts. The factor, who knew Malcolm only as a servant, had 


afterwards allowed her to remain in his charge, merely in the 
hope, through his treatment, of by-and-by selling her, as she had 


been bought, for a faultless animal, but at a far better price. 


CHAPTER II. 
THE LIBRARY. 


WHEN she had finished her oats, Malcolm left her busy with her 
hay, for she was a huge eater, and went into the house, passing 


‘through the kitchen and ascending a spiral stone stair to the 


library—the only room not now dismantled. As he went along 


_the narrow passage on the second floor leading to it from the 


_ head of the stair, the housekeeper, Mrs Courthope, peeped after 


him from one of the many bedrooms opening upon it, and 
watched him as he went, nodding her head two or three times 
with decision : he reminded her so strongly—not of his father, 
the last marquis, but the brother who had preceded him, that she 


felt all but certain, whoever might be his mother, he had as 


much of the Colonsay blood in his veins as any marquis of them 
all. It was in consideration of this likeness that Mr Crathie had 
permitted the youth, when his services were not required, to read 
in the library. 

Malcolm went straight to a certain corner, and from amongst 


a dingy set of old classics took down a small Greek book, in 


large type. It was the manual of that slave among slaves, that 
noble among the free, Epictetus). He was no great Greek 
scholar, but, with the help of the Latin translation, and the gloss 


. 


THE LIBRARY. ey Sec 


of his own rath experience, he could lay hold of the mind of that 
slave of a slave, whose very slavery was his slave to carry him to 
the heights of freedom. It was not Greek he cared for, but 
Epictetus. It was but little he read, however, for the occurrence 
of the morning demanded, compelled thought. Mr Crathie’s 
behaviour caused him neither anger nor uneasiness, but it 
rendered necessary some decision with regard to the ordering o 
his future. ae 
I can hardly say he recalled how, on his death-bed, the late 
marquis, about three months before, having, with all needful 
observances, acknowledged him his son, had committed to his 
trust the welfare of his sister ; for the memory of this charge was 
never absent from his feeling even when not immediately present 
to his thought. But although a charge which he would have 
taken upon him all the same had his father not committed it to 
him, it was none the less a source of perplexity upon which as 
yet all his thinking had let in but little light. For to appear as 
Marquis of Lossie was not merely to take from his sister the 
title she supposed her own, but to declare her illegitimate, see- 
ing that, unknown to the marquis, the youth’s mother, his first 
wife, was still alive when Florimel was born. How to act so that 
as little evil as possible might befall the favourite of his father, 
and one whom he had himself loved with the devotion almost of 
a dog, before he knew she was his sister, was the main problem. 
For himself, he had had a rough education, and had enjoyed 
it: his thoughts were not troubled about his own prospects. 
Mysteriously committed to the care of a poor blind Highland 
piper, a stranger from inland regions, settled amongst a fishing 
people, he had, as he grew up, naturally fallen into their ways of 
life and labour, and but lately abandoned the calling of a fisher- 
man to take charge of the marquis’s yacht, whence, by degrees, 
he had, in his helpfulness, grown indispensable to him and his — 
daughter, and had come to live in the house of Lossie as a privi- 
leged servant. His book education, which he owed mainly to — 
the friendship of the parish schoolmaster, although nothing mar- 
vellous, or in Scotland very peculiar, had opened for him in all 
directions doors of thought and inquiry, but the desire of know- 
ledge was in his case, again through the influences of Mr 
' Graham, subservient to an almost restless yearning after the 
truth of things, a passion so. rare that the ordinary mind can 
hardly master even the fact of its existence. | 
The Marchioness of Lossie, as she was now called, for the 


family was one of the two or three in Scotland in which the title | ~~ 


descends to an heiress, had left Lossie House almost imme- 


ae THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


diately upon her father’s death, under the guardianship of a 
certain dowager countess. Lady Bellair had taken her first to 
Edinburgh, and then to London. Tidings of her Malcolm 
occasionally received through Mr Soutar of Duff Harbour, the 
lawyer the marquis had employed to draw up the papers substan- 
tiating the youth’s claim. The last amounted to this, that, as 
rapidly as the proprieties of mourning would permit, she was 
circling the vortex of the London season; and Malcolm was now 


almost in despair of ever being of the least service to her as a 


brother to whom as a servant he had seemed at one time of 
daily necessity. If he might but once be her skipper, her 


groom, her attendant, he might then at least learn how to dis- 


cover to her the bond between them, without breaking it in the 


very act, and:so ruining the hope of service to follow. 


—— nan 


‘CHAPTER III. 
MISS HORN. 


THe door opened, and in walked a tall, gaunt, hard-featured 
woman, in a huge bonnet, trimmed with black ribbons, and a 
long black net veil, worked over with sprigs, coming down 
almost to her waist. She looked stern, determined, almost fierce, 
shook hands with a sort of loose dissatisfaction, and dropped 
into one of the easy chairs in which the library abounded. With 
the act the question seemed shot from her— 

“‘ Duv ye ca’ yersel’ an honest man, noo, Ma’colm P” 

“T ca’ myself naething,” answered the youth ; ‘‘ but I wad fain 
be what ye say, Miss Horn.” 

“Ow! I dinna doobt ye wadna steal, nor yet tell lees aboot a 
horse: I ha’e jist come frae a sair waggin’ o’ tongues about ye. 
Mistress Crathie tells me her man’s In a sair vex ’at ye winna tell 
a wordless lee aboot the black mere: that’s what I ca’t—no her. 
But lee it wad be, an’ dinna ye aither wag or haud a leein’ 
tongue. A. gentleman maunna lee, no even by sayin’ naething— 
na, no gien ’t war to wingintill the kingdom. But, Guid be 
thankit, that’s whaur leears never come. Maybe ye’re thinkin’ I 
ha’e sma’ occasion to say sic like to yersel’, An’ yet what’s yer 
life but a lee, Ma’colm? You ’at’s the honest Marquis o’ Lossie 
to waur yer time an’ the stren’th o’ yer boady an’ the micht o’ yer 
sowl tyauvin’ (z7estling) wi’ a deevil o’ a she-horse, whan there’s 


MISS HORN. 9 


that half-sister o’ yer ain gauin’ to the verra deevil o’ perdition 
himsel’ amang the godless gentry o’ Lon’on !” 

“What wad ye ha’e me un’erstan’ by that, Miss Horn?” re- 
turned Malcolm. “I hear no ill vu’ her. I daursay she’s no jist 
a sa’nt yet, but that’s no to be luiked for in ane o’ the breed: 
they maun a’ try the warl’ first ony gait. There’s a heap o’ fowk 
—an’ no aye the warst, maybe,” continued Malcolm, thinking of 
his father, ‘‘’at wull ha’e their bite o’ the aipple afore they spite it 
oot. But for my leddy sister, she’s owre prood ever to disgrace 
hersel’.” 

“Weel, maybe, gien she bena misguidit by them she’s wv. 
But I’m no sae muckle concernt aboot her. Only it’s plain ’at ye 
ha’e no richt to lead her intill temptation.” 

“ Hoo am I temptin’ at her, mem ?” 

“That’s plain to half an e’e. Ir ye no lattin’ her live believin’ 
alee? Ir ye no allooin her to gang on as gien she was some- 
body mair nor mortal, when ye ken she’s nae mair Marchioness 
o' Lossie nor ye’re the son o’ auld Duncan MacPhail? Faith, 
ye ha’e lost trowth gien ye ha’e gaint the warl’ 7 the cheenge 0’ 
forbeirs !” 

“Mint at naething again the deid, mem. My father’s gane 
till’s accoont ; an’ it’s weel for him he has his father an’ no his 
sister to pronoonce upo’ him.” 

“Deed ye're right there, laddie,” said Miss Horn, in a 
subdued tone. 

« He’s made it up wi’ my mither afore noo, I’m thinkin’; an’ 
ony gait he confesst her his wife an’ me her son afore he dee’d, 
an’ what mair had he time to du?” 

“It’s fac’,” returned Miss Horn. ‘An’ noo luik at yersel’: 
what yer father confesst wi’ the verra deid thraw o’ a labourin’ 
speerit, to the whilk naething cud ha’e broucht him but the deid > 
thraws (death struggles) 0’ the bodily natur’ an’ the fear o’ hell, 
that same confession ye row up again’ the cloot o’ secrecy, in 
place o’ dightin’ wi’ ’t the blot frae the memory o’ ane wha I 
believe I lo’ed mair as my third cousin nor ye du as yer ain 
mither !” 

“There’s no blot upo’ her memory, mem,” returned the youth, 
“or I wad be markis the morn. ‘There’s never a sowl kens she 
was mither but kens she was wife—ay, an’ whase wife, tu.” 

Miss Horn had neither wish nor power to reply, and changed 
her front. 

“ An’ sae, Ma’colm Colonsay,” she said, “ye ha’e no less nor 
made up yer min’ to pass yer days in yer ain stable, neither 
better nor waur than an ostler at the Lossie Airms, an’ that efter 


+e THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


a’ ’at I ha’e borne an’ dune to mak a gentleman 0’ ye, bairdin’ 
yer father here like a verra lion in ’s den, an’ garrin’ him confess 
the thing again’ ilka hair upon the stiff neck o’ ‘im?  Losh, 
laddie ! it was a pictur’ to see him stan’in wi’ ’s back to the door 
like a camstairy (ods¢znate) bullock !” 

“Haud yer tongue, mem, gien ye please. I canna bide to 
hear my father spoken o’ like that. For ye see I lo’ed him afore 
I kent he was ony drap ’s blude to me.” 

“‘ Weel, that’s verra weel; but father an’ mither’s man and wife, 
an’ ye camna oO’ a father alane.” 

“‘That’s true, mem, an’ it canna be I sud ever forget yon face 
ye shawed me i’ the coffin, the bonniest, sairest sicht I ever saw,” 
returned Malcolm, with a quaver in his voice. 

“‘ But what for cairry yer thouchts to the deid face o’ her? Ye 
kent the leevin’ ane weel,” objected Miss Horn. 

“That’s true, mem; but the deid face maist blottit the leevin’ 
oot o’ my brain.” 

“‘T’m sorry for that.—Eh, laddie, but she was bonny to see!” 

“YT aye thoucht her the bonniest leddy I ever set e’e upo’. 
An’ dinna think, mem, I’m gaein to forget the deid, ’cause I’m 
mair concernt aboot the leevin’. I tell ye I jist dinna ken what 
to du. What wi’ my father’s deein’ words committin’ her to my 
chairge, an’ the more than regaird I ha’e to Leddy Florimel her- 
sel’, I’m jist whiles driven to ane mair. Hoo can [I tak the verra 
sunsheen oot o’ her life ’at I lo’ed afore I kent she was my ain 
sister, an’ jist thoucht lang to win near eneuch till to du her ony 
guid turn worth duin? An’ here I am, her ane half brither, w1’ 
naething 7’ my pooer but to scaud the hert o’ her, or else lee ! 
Supposin’ she was weel merried first, hoo wad she stan’ wi’ her 
man whan he cam to ken ’at she was nae marchioness—hed no 
lawfw’ richt to ony name but her mither’s? . An’ afore that, what 
richt cud I ha’e to alloo ony man to merry her ohn kent the 
trowth aboot her? Faith, it wad be a fine chance though for the 
fin’in’ oot whether or no the man was worthy o’ her! But ye-see 


that micht be to make a playock o’ her hert. Puir thing, she 


luiks doon upo’ me frae the tap o’ her bonny neck, as frae a 
h’avenly heicht ; but I s’ lat her ken yet, gien only I can win at 


_ the gait o’ ’t, that I ha’ena come nigh her for naething.” 


He gave a sigh with the words, and a pause followed. | 

“The trowth’s the trowth,” resumed Miss Horn, ‘neither mair 
nor less.” 

“Ay,” responded Malcolm, “but there’s a richt an’ a wrang 
time for the telling’ o’ ’t. It’s no as gien I had had han’ or 
tongue in ony foregane lee. It was naething o’ my duin’, as ye 


Ae Be: “ork ee 


Pe 
: 


MISS HORN. I 


‘ken, mem. To mysel’, I was never onything but a fisherman 


born. I confess ’at whiles, when we wad be lyin’ i’ the lee o’ the 


nets, tethered to them like, wi’ the win’-blawin’ strong ’an steady, 
I ha’e thocht wi’ mysel’ ’at I kent naething aboot my father, an’ 
what gien it sud turn oot ’at I was the son 0’ somebody-—what 
wad I du wi my siller?”. 

“An’ what thoucht ye ye wad du, laddie?” asked Miss Horn 
gently. 

“What but bigg a harbour at Scaurnose for the puir slits 
fowk ’at was like my ain flesh and blude!” 

“Weel,” rejoined Miss Horn eagerly, ff div ye no look upo’ 
that as a voo to the Almichty—a voo ’at ye re bun’ to pay, noo 
’at ye ha’e yer wuss? An’ it’s no merely ’at ye ha’e the means, 
but there’s no anither that has the richt; for they’re yer ain 
fowk, ’at ye gaither rent frae, an ’at’s been for mony a generation 
sattlet upo’ yer lan-—though for the maitter o’ the lan’, they ha’e 
had little mair o’ that than the birds o’ the rock ha’e ohn feued 
—an’ them honest fowks wi’ wives an’ sowls o’ their ain! Hoo 
upo’ airth are ye to du yer duty by them, an’ render yer accoont 
at the last, gien ye dinna tak till ye yer pooer an’ reign? Ilk 
man ’at ’s in ony sense a king o’ men is bun’ to reign ower them 
im that sense. I ken little aboot things mysel’, an’ I ha’e no 
feelin’s to guide me, but I ha’e a wheen cowmon sense, an’ that 
maun jist stan’ for the lave.” 

A silence followed. 

“What for speak na ye, Ma’colm ?” said Miss Horn, at length. 

“TI was jist tryin’,” he answered, ‘to min’ upon a twa lines ’at 
I cam’ upo’ the ither day in a buik ’at Maister Graham gied me 
afore he gaed awa—’cause I reckon he kent them a’ by hert. 
They say jist sic like’s ye been sayin’, mem—gien I cud but min’ 
upo’ them. ‘They're aboot a man ’at aye does the richt gait—- 
made by ane they ca’ Wordsworth.” 

“TI ken naething aboot him,” said Miss Horn, with emphasized 
indifference. 

* An’ I ken but little: Is’ ken mair or lang though. ‘This is 
hoo the piece begins :— 

Who is the happy warrior? Who is he 

That every Man in arms should wish to be? 

—It is the generous Spirit, who, when brought 

Among the tasks of real life, hath wrought 

Upon the plan that pleased his childish thought: 
—There ! that’s what ye wad hae o’ me, mem!” 

“‘ Hear till him!” cried Miss Horn. ‘The man’s i’ the richt, 
though naebody never h’ard 0’ ’im, Haud ye by that, Ma’colm, 


ae 


12 7 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


an’ dinna ye rist till ye ha’e biggit a harbour to the men an’ 


- women o’ Scaurnose. Wha kens hoo mony may gang to the 


¥, 


boddom afore it be dune, jist for the want o’ ‘t?” 

“The fundation maun be laid in richteousness, though, mem, 
else—what gien ’t war to save lives better lost?” 

“That belangs to the Michty,” said Miss Horn. 

“ Ay, but the layin’ o’ the fundation belangs to me. An’ I'll 
no du’t till I can du’t ohn ruint my sister.” 

“ Weel, there’s ae thing clear: ye’ll never ken what to do sae 
lang’s ye hing on aboot a stable, fu’ o’ fower-fittet animals 
wantin’ sense—an’ some twa-fittet ’at has less.” 

“T doobt ye’re richt there, mem; and gien I cud but tak puir 
Kelpie awa’ wi’ me i 

“ Hoots! I’m affrontit wi’ ye. Kelpie—quo he! Preserve’s a’! 
The laad ’ill lat his ain sister gang, an’ bide at hame wi’ a mere!” 

Malcolm held his peace. 

“¢ Ay, I’m thinkin’ I maun gang,” he said at length. 

“ Whaur till, than P” asked Miss Horn. 

“ Ow! to Lon’on—whaur ither?” 

“¢ And what'll yer lordship du there?” 

“‘Dinna say /ordshif to me, mem, or I'll think ye’re jeerin’ at 
me. What wad the caterpillar say,” he added, with a laugh, 
“sien ye ca’d her zzy leddie Psyche?” 

Malcolm of course pronounced the Greek word in Scotch 
fashion. 

“T ken naething aboot yer Seechies or yer Sukies,” rejoined 
Miss Horn. “I ken ’at ye’re bun’ to be a lord and no a stable- 
man, an’ I s’ no lat ye rist till ye up an’ say what netst 2?” 

“It’s what I ha’e been sayin’ for the last three month,” said 
Malcolm. 

“Ay, I daursay ; but ye ha’e been sayin’ ’t upo’ the braid o’ 
yer back, and I wad ha’e ye up an’ sayin’ ’t.” 

“Gien I but kent what to du!” said Malcolm, for the 
thousandth time. 

“Ye can at least gang whaur ye ha’e a chance o’ learnin’,” 
returned his friend.—‘“‘ Come an’ tak yer supper wi’ me the nicht 
—a rizzart haddie an’ an egg, an’ I'll tell ye mair aboot yer 


- mnither.” 


But Malcolm avoided a promise, lest it should interfere with - 


what he might find best to do. 


RELPIE'S AIRING. 3 


CHAPTER IV: 
KELPIE’S AIRING. 


WHEN Miss Horn left him—with a farewell kindlier than her 
greeting—rendered yet more restless by her talk, he went back 
to the stable, saddled Kelpie, and took her out for an airing. 

As he passed the factor’s house, Mrs Crathie saw him from 
the window. Her colour rose. She rose herself also, and 
looked after him from the door—a proud and peevish woman, 
jealous of her husband’s dignity, still more jealous of her own. 

“The verra image o’ the auld markis!” she said to herself;, 
for in the recesses of her bosom she spoke the Scotch she 
scorned to utter aloud; “and sits jist like himsel’, wi’ a wee 
stoop i’ the saiddle, and ilka noo an’ than a swing o’ his haill 
boady back, as gien some thoucht had set him straught.—Gien 
the fractious brute wad but brak a bane or twa o’ him!” she 
went on in growing anger. ‘‘ The impidence o’ the fallow! He 
has his leave : what for disna he tak’ it an’ gang? But oot o’ 
this gang he sall. To ca’ aman like mine a heepocreet ’cause he 
wadna procleem till a haill market ilka secret fau’t o’ the horse 
he had to sell! Haith, he cam’ upo’ the wrang side o’ the sheet 
to play the lord and maister here! and that I can tell him !” 

The mare was fresh, and the roads through the policy hard 
both by nature and by frost, so that he could not let her go, and 
had enough to do with her. He turned, therefore, towards the 
sea-gate, and soon reached the shore. There, westward of the 
Seaton, where the fisher folk lived, the sand lay smooth, flat, and 
wet along the edge of the receding tide: he gave Kelpie the 
rein, and she sprang into a wild gallop, every now and then 
flinging her heels as high as her rider’s head. But finding, as. 
they approached the stony part from which rose the great rock 


called the Bored Craig, that he could not pull her up in time, he 
turned her head towards the long dune of sand which, a little: 
beyond the tide, ran parallel with the shore. It was dry and. 
loose, and the ascent steep. Kelpie’s hoofs sank at every step, 


and when she reached the top, with wide-spread struggling: 
haunches, and “nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,” he: 
had her in hand. She stood panting, yet pawing and dancing, — 
and making the sand fly in all directions. 


Suddenly a woman with a child in her arms rose, as it seemed: 


to Malcolm, under Kelpie’s very head. She wheeled and reared, 


and, in wrath or in terror, strained every nerve to unseat her- 


—— 


44 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


: rider, while, whether from faith or despair, the woman stood still 


as a statue, staring at the struggle. 

“ Haud awa’ a bit, Lizzy,” cried Malcolm. “She’s a mad 
brute, an’ I mayna be able to haud her. Ye ha’e the bairnie, 
ye see” ; 

She was a young woman, with a sad white face. To what 
Malcolm said she paid no heed, but stood with her child in her 


arms and gazed at Kelpie as she went on plunging and kicking 
-about on the top of the dune. 


“T reckon ye wadna care though the she-deevil knockit oot yet 
harns ; but ye hae the bairn, woman! MHa’e mercy on the 
bairmn, an’ rin to the boddom.” 

“I want to speak to ye, Ma’colm MacPhail,” she said, ina 


tone whose very stillness revealed a depth of trouble. 


“‘T doobt I canna hearken to ye richt the noo,” said Malcolm. 
“But bide a wee.” 

He swung himself from Kelpie’s back, and, hanging hard on 
the bit with one hand, searched with the other in the pocket of 
his coat, saying, as he did so— 

“Sugar, Kelpie! sugar!” 

The animal gave an eager snort, settled on her feet, and began 
snuffing about him. He made haste, for, if her eagerness should 
turn to impatience, she would do her endeavour to bite him. 
After crunching three or four lumps, she stood pretty quiet, and 


Malcolm must make the best of what time she would give him. 


“Noo, Lizzy !” he said hurriedly. “‘ Speyk while ye can.” 
“« Ma colm,” said the girl, and looked him full in the face for a 
moment, for agony had overcome shame; then her gaze sought 


_ the far horizon, which to seafaring people is as the hills whence 


cometh their aid to the people who dwell among mountains ; 
““__Ma’colm, he’s gaein’ to merry Leddy Florimel.” 


Malcolm started. Could the girl have learned more concerning 
his sister than had yet reached himself? A fine watching over 
_her was his, truly! But who was this he ? 

Lizzy had never uttered the name of the father of her child, 


and all her people knew was that he could not be a fisherman, for 
then he would have married her before the child was born. But 
Malcolm had had a suspicion from the first, and now her words 
all but confirmed it—And was that fellow going to marry his 
sister? He turned white with dismay—then red with anger, amd 
stood speechless. 

But he was quickly brought to himself by a sharp pinch under 
the shoulder blade from Kelpie’s long teeth: he had forgotten 
her, and she had taken the advantage. 


A . ub ee 
ae 


KELPIE’S AIRING. ge 


“Wha tellt ye that, Lizzy ?” he said. 

“Tm no at leeberty to say, Ma’colm, but I’m sure it’s true, an’ 
my hert’s like to brak.” 

“ Puir lassie !” said Malcolm, whose own trouble had never at 
any time rendered him insensible to that of others. “But is't 
onybody ’at Zens what he says?” he pursued. 

“ Weel, I dinna jist richtly ken gien she ens, but I think she 
maun ha’e gude rizzon, or she wadna say as she says. Obi me! 
me! my bairnie ’ill be scornin’ me sair whan he comes to ken. 
Ma’colm, ye re the only ane ’at disna luik doon upo’ me, an’ 
whan ye cam’ ower the tap o’ the Boar’s Tail, it was like an angel 
in a fire-flaucht, an’ something inside me said—-Zell’ zm ; tell’im ; 
an’ sae I bude to tell ye.’ 

Malcolm was even too simple to feel flattered by the girl’s 
confidence, though to be trusted is a greater compliment than to 
be loved. 

“ Hearken, Lizzy!” he said. “I canna e’en think, wi’ this 
-brute ready ilka meenute to ate me up. I maun tak’ her hame. 
Efter that, gien ye wad like to tell me onything, Is’ be at yer 
service. Bide aboot here—or, luik ye: here’s the key o’ yon 
door; come throw’ that intil the park—throu’ aneth the toll- 
rod, ye ken. There ye'll get into the lythe (/ce) wi’ the bairnie ; 


an’ I'll be wi’ ye in a quarter o’ an hoor. _It’ll tak’ me but twa 


meenutes to gang hame. Stoat il put up the mere, and [ll be 
back—I can du’t in ten meenutes.” 

“Hh! dinna hurry for me, Ma’colm: I’m no worth it,” said 
Lizzy. 

But Malcolm was already at full speed along the top of the 
dune. 

“Lord preserve ’s!” cried Lizzy, when she saw him clear the 
brass swivel. “Sic a laad as that is! Eh, he maun ha’e a richt 
lass to lo’e him some day! It’s a’ ane to him, boat or beast. He 
wadna turn frae the deil himsel’, An syne he’s jist as saft’s a 
deuk’s neck when he speyks till a wuman or a bairn—ay, or an 
auld man aither !” 

And full of trouble as it was about another, Lizzy’s heart yet 
ached at the thought that she should be so unworthy of one like 
him, 


16 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


CHAPTER V. 


LIZZY FINDLAY. 

From the sands she saw him gain the turnpike road with a 
bound and a scramble. Crossing it he entered the park by the 
-sea-gate; she had to enter it by the tunnel that passed under the 
same road. She approached the grated door, unlocked it, and 
looked in with a shudder. It was dark, the other end of it being 
obscured by trees, and the roots of the hill on whose top stood 
the temple of the winds. Through the tunnel blew what seemed 
- quite another wind—one of death, from regions beneath. She 
drew her shawl, one end of which was rolled about her baby, 
closer around them both ere she entered. Never before had she 
set foot within the place, and a strange horror of it filled her: 
she did not know that by that passage, on a certain lovely sum- 
mer night, Lord Meikleham had issued to meet her on the sands 
under the moon. ‘The sea was not terrible to her; she knew all 
its ways nearly as well as Malcolm knew the moods of Kelpie ; 
but the earth and its ways were less known to her, and to turn 
her face towards it and enter by a little door into its bosom was 
like a visit to her grave. But she gathered her strength, entered 
with a shudder, passed in growing hope and final safety through 
it, and at the other end came out again into the light, only the 
cold of its death seemed to cling to her still. But the day had 
grown colder; the clouds that, seen or unseen, ever haunt the 
winter sun, had at length caught and shrouded him, and through 
the gathering vapours he looked ghastly. The wind blew from 
the sea. The tide was going down. ‘There was snow in the 
air. The thin leafless trees were all bending away from the 
_ shore, and the wind went sighing, hissing, and almost wailing 
through their bare boughs and budless twigs. There would be a 
storm, she thought, ere the morning; but none of their people 
were out. 

Had there been—well, she had almost ceased to care about 
anything, and her own life was so little to her now, that she had 
become less able to value that of other people. ‘To this had the 
ignis fatuus of a false love brought her! She had dreamed 


heedlessly, to awake sorrowfully. But not until she heard he . 


was going to be married, had she come right awake, and now 
she could dream no more. Alas! alas! what claim had she 
upon him? How could she tell, since such he was, what poor 
girl like herself she might not have robbed of her part in him? 


™ #5 pen a OK are we eS ee ee Pi ~~ 7 x 
J Ea sae Nae Ab ah ta eet ots +t Ph _ 
(die ER ne - ‘¥ mak 
A eng aa “ Sa a aL. 


LIZZY FINDLAY. 17 


Yet even in the midst of her misery and despair, it was some 
consolation to think that Malcolm was her friend. 

Not knowing that he had already suffered from the blame of 
her fault, or the risk at which he met her, she would have gone 
towards the house to meet him the sooner, had not this been a 
part of the grounds where she knew Mr Crathie tolerated no one 
without express leave given. The fisher folk in particular must 
keep to the road by the other side of the burn, to which the sea- 
gate admitted them. Lizzy therefore lingered near the tunnel, 
afraid of being seen. 

Mr Crathie was a man who did well under authority, but upon 
the top of it was consequential, overbearing, and far more exact- 
ing than the marquis. Full of his employer’s importance when 
he was present, and of his own when he was absent, he was yet 
in the latter circumstances so doubtful of its adequate recogni- 
tion by those under him, that he had grown very imperious, and 
resented with ‘indignation the slightest breach of his orders. 
Hence he was in no great favour w ith the fishers. 

Now all the day he had been fuming over Malcolm’s be- 
haviour to him in the morning, and when he went home and 
learned that his wife had seen him upon Kelpie, as if nothing 
had happened, he became furious, and, in this possession of the 
devil, was at the present moment wandering about the grounds, 
brooding on the words Malcolm had spoken, He could not get 
rid of them. They caused an acrid burning in his bosom, for 
they had in them truth, like which no poison stings. 

Malcolm, having crossed by the great bridge at the house, 
hurried down the western side of the burn to find Lizzy, and 
soon came upon her, walking up and down. 

“‘ Fh, lassie, ye maun be cauld !” he said. 

a No that cauld,” she answered, and with the words burst into 

* tears. ‘“ But naebody says a kin’ word to me noe, ” she said in 
excuse, “ an’ I canna weel bide the soun’ o’ ane when it comes ; ; 
I’m no used till ’t.” 

“ Naebody ?” exclaimed Malcolm. 

“Na, naebody,” she answered. “ My mither winna, my 
father daurna, an’ the bairnie canna, an’ I gang near naebody 
forbye.” 

x Weel, we maunna stan’ oot here 7’ the cauld: come this 
gait,” said Malcolm. “The bairnie "Il get its deid.” 

“There wadna be mony to greit at that,” returned Lizzy, and 
pressed the child closer to her bosom. 

Malcolm led the way to the little chamber contrived under 
the temple in the heart of the hill, and unlocking the door made 

B 


~a eae Re s. 
> at a4 


Sas 


18 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE. # 


her enter. There he seated her in a comfortable chair, and 


wrapped her in the plaid he had brought for the purpose. It 


was all he could do to keep from taking her in his arms for very 
pity, for, both body and soul, she seemed too frozen to shiver. 


_ He shut the door, sat down on the table near her, and said : 


_ ** There’s naebody to disturb’s here, Lizzie: what wad ye say 
to me noo?” 

The sun was nearly down, and its light already almost 
smothered in clouds, so that the little chamber, whose door and 
window were in the deep shadow of the hill, was nearly dark. 

“ T wadna hae ye tell me onything ye promised no to tell,” re- 
sumed Malcolm, finding she did not reply, “ but I wad like to 
hear as muckle as ye can say.” 

“TI hae naething to tell ye, Ma’colm, but jist ’at my leddy 
Florimel’s gauin’ to be merried upo’ Lord Meikleham—Lord 
Liftore, they ca’ him noo. Hech me!” 

“God forbid she sud be merried upon ony sic’ a bla’guard !” 
cried Malcolm. ‘ 

“ Dinna ca’ ’im ill names, Ma’colm. I canna bide it, though 
I hae no richt to tak up the stick for him.” 

‘“‘T wadna say a word ’at micht fa’ sair on a sair hert,” he re- 
turned ; “but gien ye kent a’, ye wad ken I hed a gey-sized 
craw to pluck wi’ ’s lordship mysel’.” 

The girl gave a low cry. 

“Ye wadna hurt ’im, Ma’colm !” she said, in terror at the 


thought of the elegant youth in the clutches of an angry fisher- 


man, even if he were the generous Malcolm MacPhail himself. 
“TY wad raither not,” he replied, “but we maun see hoo he 


- cairries himsel’.” 


“Du naething till ’im for my sake, Ma’colm. Yecan hae nae- 
thing again’ him yersel’.” 

It was too dark for Malcolm to see the keen look of wistful 
regret with which Lizzie tried to pierce the gloom and read his 


face: for a moment the poor girl thought he meant he had loved 


her himself. But far other thoughts were in Malcolm’s mind: one 


_ was that her whom, as a scarce approachable goddess, he hal 


loved before he knew her of his own blood, he would rather see 
married to an honest fisherman in the Seaton of Portlossie, than 
to such a lord as Meikleham. He had seen enough of him at 
Lossie House to know what he was, and puritanical fish-catching 


_ Malcolm had ideas above those of most marquises of his day : 


the thought of the alliance was horrible to him. It was possibly 
not inevitabie, however ! only what could he do, and at the same 
time avoid grievous hurt ? 


eo MR CRATHIE. | £9 


«¥ dinna think he’ll ever merry my leddy,” he said. 
“What gars ye say that, Ma’colm?” returned Lizzy, with 
eagerness. 


“T canna tell ye jist 1 the noo; but ye ken a body canna weel © 


be aye aboot a place ohn seen things. J’ll tell ye something 0’ 
mair consequence hooever,” he continued. ‘—Some fowk say 
there’s a God, an’ some say there’s nane, an’ I ha’e no richt to 
preach to ye, Lizzy; but I maun jist tell ye this—’at gien God 
‘dinna help them ’at cry till ’im 7 the warst o’ tribles, they micht 
jist as weel ha’e nae God at a. For my ain pairt I ha’e been 
-helpit, an’ I think it was him intil’t. Wi? his help, a man may 
-warstle throw’ onything. I say I think it was himsel’ tuik me 
ithrow’ ’t, an’ here I stan’ afore ye, ready for the neist trible, an’ 
tthe help ’at ‘ll come wi ’t. What it may be, God only knows !” 


CHAPTER VI. 
MR CRATHIE. 


HE was interrupted by the sudden opening of the door, and the 
voice of the factor in exultant wrath. 

“MacPhail!” it cried. “Come out with you. Don’t think 
to sneak there. / know you. What right have you to be on the 
premises? Didn't I send you about your business this 
morning ?” 

“ Ay, sir, but ye didna pey me my wages,” said Malcolm, who 
had sprung to the door and now stood holding it half shut, while 
Mr Crathie pushed it half open. 

““No matter. You're nothing better than a housebreaker if 
you enter any building about the place.” 

“J brak nae lock,” returned Malcolm. ‘TI ha’e the key my 
Jord gae me to ilka place ’ithin the wa’s excep’ the strong room.” 

“‘ Give it me directly. JZ’ master here now.” 

“’Deed, Is’ du nae sic thing, sir. What he gae me I’ll keep.” 

‘Give up that key, or I’ll go at once and get a warrant against 
‘you for theft.” 

Weel, wes’ refar’t to Maister Soutar.” 

“Damn your impudence—at / sud say’t !—what has he to do 
“with my affairs? Come out of that directly.” 

“ Huly, huly, sir!” returned Malcolm, in terror lest he should 
«discover who was with him. | 


"e . 5 ge ke Fe A ae 
. = a p ; je | 


20 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


“You low-bred rascal! Who have you there with you?” 
As he spoke Mr Crathie would have forced his way into the 


dusky chamber, where he could just perceive a motionless 


undefined form. But stiff as a statue Malcolm kept his stand, 


and the door was immovable. Mr Crathie gave a second and 


angrier push, but the youth’s corporeal as well as his mental 
equilibrium was hard to upset, and his enemy drew back in 
mounting fury. 

“Get out of there,” he cried, “or I'll horsewhip you for a 
damned blackguard.” 

“ Whup awa’,” said Malcolm, “ but in here ye s’ no come the 
nicht.” 

The factor rushed at him, his heavy whip upheaved—and the 
same moment found himself, not in the room, but lying on the 
flower-bed in front of it. Malcolm instantly stepped out, locked 
the door, put the key in his pocket, and turned to assist him. 
But he was up already, and busy with words unbefitting the 
mouth of an elder of the kirk. 

“Didna I say ’at ye sudna come in, sir? What for wull fowk 
no tak’ a tellin’ ?” expostulated Malcolm. 

But the factor was far beyond force of logic or illumination of 
reason. He raved and swore. 

“Get oot o’ my sicht,” he cried, “or I'll shot ye like a tyke.” 

“Gang an’ fess yer gun,” said Malcolm, “an’ gien ye fin’ me 
waitin’ for ye, ye can lat at me.” 

The factor uttered a horrible imprecation on himself if he did 


not make him pay dearly for his behaviour. 


“ Hoots, sir! Be asham’t o’ yersel’, Gang hame to the mis- 
tress, an’ I s’ be up the morn’s mornin’ for my wages.” 

“If ye set foot on the grounds again, I’ll set every dog in the 
place upon you.” 

Malcolm laughed. 

“Gien I was to turn the order the ither gait, wad they min’ 
you or me, div ye think, Maister Crathie ?” 

“Give me that key, and go about your business.” 

“Na, na, sir! What my lord gae me I s’ keep—for a’ the 


factors atween this an’ the Land’s En’,” returned Malcolm. “ An’ 


3 : 
for leain’ the place, gien I be na in your service, Maister 


_ Crathie, I’m nae un’er your orders. T’ll gang whan it shuits me, 


An’ mair yet, ye s’ gang oot o’ this first, or I 9’ gar ye, an’ that 
ve'lisee.” 

It was a violent proceeding, but for a matter of manners he 
was not going to risk what of her good name poor Lizzy had 
left; like the books of the Sibyl, that grew in value. He made, 


Pip One Re ae 


ois the 


ae 
Re 


BLUE PETER. ox 


however, but one threatful stride towards the factor, for the great 
man turned and fled. 

The moment he was out of sight, Malcolm unlocked the door, 
led Lizzy out, and brought her through the tunnel to the sands. 
There he left her, and set out for Scaurnose. 


CHAPTER VII. 
BLUE PETER. 


THE door of Blue Peter’s cottage was opened by his sister. Not 
much at home in the summer, when she carried fish to the 
country, she was very little absent in the winter, and as there 
was but one room for all uses, except the closet bedroom and 
the garret at the top of the ladder, Malcolm, instead of going in, 
called to his friend, whom he saw by the fire with his little 
Phemy upon his knee, to come out and speak to him. 

Blue Peter atonce obeyed the summons. 

“There’s naething wrang, Lhoup, Ma’colm?” he said, as he 
closed the door behind him. 

“‘Maister Graham wad say,” returned Malcolm, “ naething ever 
was wrang but what ye did wrang yersel’, or wadna pit richt whan 
yehadachance. I ha’e him nae mair to gang till, Joseph, an’ sae 
I’m come to you. Come doon by, an’ ?’ the scoug o’ a rock, Ill 
tell ye a’ aboot it.” 

“Ye wadna ha’e the mistress no ken o’ ’t?” said his friend. 
‘J dinna jist like haein’ secrets frae her.” 

** Ye sall jeedge for yersel’, man, an’ tell her or no just as ye 
like. Only she maun haud her tongue, or the black dog ll ha’e 
a’ the butter.” 

“She can haud her tongue like the tae-stane o’ a grave,” said 
Peter. 

As they spoke they reached the cliff that hung over the 
shattered shore. It was a clear, cold night. Snow, the remnants 
of the last storm, which frost had preserved in every shadowy 
spot, lay all about them. ‘The sky was clear, and full of stars, 
for the wind that blew cold from the north-west had dispelled the 
snowy clouds. The waves rushed into countless gulfs and crannies 
and straits on the ruggedest of shores, and the sounds of waves 
and wind kept calling like voices from the unseen. By a path, 
seemingly fitter for goats than men, they descended halfway to 


ry te ee Ry 
Steet feproa . 7 3. 1S ‘ 


go 23.) THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


the beach, and under a great projection of rock stood sheltcree 
from the wind. Then Malcolm turned to Joseph Marr, com- 

- monly called Blue Peter, because he had been a man-of-war’s: 
_ man, and laying his hand on his arm said : 


“ Blue Peter, did ever I tell ye a lee?” ee ete 
“ No,never,” answered Peter. “What gars ye speir sic a thing? 
“’Cause I want ye to believe me noo, an’ it winna be easy.’ 
“Tl believe onything ye tell me—at can be believed.” 5 
“Weel, I ha’e come to the knowledge ‘at my names nO 
MacPhail : it’s Colonsay. Man, I’m the Markis o’ Lossie.” 
Without a moment’s hesitation, without a single stare of un-. 
belief or even astonishment, Blue Peter pulled off his bonnet,. 
and stood bareheaded before the companion of his toils. 
“Peter !” cried Malcolm, “ dinna brak my hert: put on yer 


bonnet.” 7 


“The Lord o’ lords be thankit, my lord!” said Blue Peter: 
“the puir man has a freen’ this day.” 

Then replacing his bonnet he said— 

“ An’ what'll be yer lordship’s wull? ” 

“ First and foremost, Peter, that my best freen’, efter my auld 
daddy and the schulemaister, ’s no to turn again’ me ’cause I hed 
a markis an’ neither piper nor fishef to my father.” 

“Tt’s no like it, my lord,” returned Blue Peter, *‘ whan the first 
thing I say is—what wad ye hae o’ me? Here I am—no 
speirin’ a queston!” 

“‘ Weel, I wad ha’e ye hear the story 0’ ’t a’.” 

Say on, my lord,” said Peter. 

But Malcolm was silent for a few moments. 

“ TI was thinkin’, Peter,” he said at last, ‘whether I cud bide 
to hear you say my Jord to me. Dootless, as it Il ha’e to come 
to that, it wad be better to grow used till ’t while we're thegither, 
sae ’at whan it maun be, it mayna ha’e the luik o’ cheenge 
intil it, for cheenge is jist the thing I canna bide I’ 
the meantime, hooever, we canna gie in till ’t, ‘cause it 
wad set fowk jaloosin’. But I wad be obleeged till ye, Peter, 
gien you wad say my Jord whiles, whan we're oor lanes, for I wad 
fain grow sae used till’t at I never kent ye said it, for ’atween 
you an’me I dinna like it. An’ noo I gs’ tell ye a’ ’at-I ken.” 

When he had ended the tale of what had come to his know- 
ledge, and how it had come, and paused. 

“Gie’s a grup o’ yer han’, my lord,” said Blue Peter, “an? 
may God haud ye lang in life an’ honour to reule ower us. Noo, 
gien ye please, what are ye gauin’ to du?” 

“Tell ye me, Peter, what ye think I oucht to du.” 


s fe. iene 


BLUE PETER. 23 


“That wad tak a heap o’ thinkin’,’ returned the fisherman ; 
“but ae thing seems aboot plain: ye ha’e no richt to lat 
yer sister gang exposed to temptations ye cud haud frae 
her. That’s no, as ye promised, to be kin’ till her. I canna 
believe that’s hoo yer father expeckit o’ ye. I ken weel 
‘at fowk in his poseetion ha’ena the preevileeges o’ the like o’ hiz 
—they ha’ena the win, an’ the watter, an’ whiles a lee shore to 
gar them know they are but men, an’ sen’ them rattling at the 
wicket of h’aven; but still I dinna think, by yer ain accoont, 
specially noo ’at I houp he’s forgi’en an’ latten in—God grant it ! 
—I div wot think he wad like my leddy Florimel to be oon’er 
the influences o’ sic a ane as that Leddy Bellair. Ye maun 
gang till her. Ye ha’e nae ch’ice, my lord.” 

*‘ But what am I to do, whan I div gang?” 

“That's what ye hev to gang an’ see.” 

‘An’ that’s what I ha’e been tellin’ mysel’, an’ what Miss 
Horn’s been tellin’ me tu. But it’s a gran’ thing to get yer ain 
thouchts corroborat. Ye see I’m feart for wrangin’ her for pride, 
and bringin’ her doon to set mysel’ up.” 

“My lord,” said Blue Peter, solemnly, “ ye ken the life o’ puir — 
fisher fowk ; ye ken hoo it micht be lichtened, sae lang as it 
laists, an’ mony a hole steikit ’at the cauld deith creeps in at 
the noo: coont ye them naething, my lord? Coont ye the wull 
o’ Providence, ’at sets ye ower them, naething? What for could 
the Lord ha’e gie ye sic an upbringin’ as no markis’ son ever 
hed afore ye, or maybe ever wull ha’e efter ye, gien it bena ’at 
ye sud tak them in han’ to du yer pairt by them? Gien ye 
forsak them noo, ye ‘ll be forgettin’ him ’at made them an’ you, 
an’ the sea, an’ the herrin’ to be taen intil ’t. Gien ye forget 
them, there’s nae houp for them, but the same deith ‘ill keep on 
swallowin’ at them upo’ sea an’ shore.” 

“Ye speyk the trowth as I ha’e spoken’t till mysel’, Peter. 
Noo, hearken: will ye sail wi’ me the nicht for Lon’on toon ?” 

The fisherman was silent a moment—then answered, 

“T wull, my lord ; but I maun tell my wife.” 

‘Rin, an’ fess her here than, for I’m fleyed at yer sister, 
honest wuman, an’ little Phemy. It wad blaud a’ thing gien I 
was hurried to du something afore I kenned what.” 

“Ts’ ha’e her oot in a meenute,” said Joseph, and scrambled 
up the cliff. 


7, ea THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


CHAPTER VIIL 
VOYAGE TO LONDON, 
For a few minutes Malcolm stood alone in the dim starlight of 


winter, looking out on the dusky sea, dark as his own future, into 
which the wind now blowing behind him would soon begin to 


ire carry him. He anticipated its difficulties, but never thought of 


perils: it was seldom anything oppressed him but the doubt of 
what he ought todo. This was ever the cold mist that swallowed 
the airy castles he built and peopled with all the friends and 
acquaintances of his youth. But the very first step towards 
action is the death-warrant of doubt, and the tide of Malcolm’s 
being ran higher that night, as he stood thus alone under the 
stars, than he had ever yet known it run. With all his common- 
sense, and the abundance of his philosophy, which the much 
leisure belonging to certain phases of his life had combined with 
the slow strength of his intellect to render somewhat long-winded 
in utterance, there was yet room in Malcolm’s bonnet for a bee 
above the ordinary size, and if it buzzed a little too romantically 
for the taste of the nineteenth century, about disguises and sur- 
prises and bounty and plots and rescues and such like, something 
must be pardoned to one whose experience had already been so 
greatly out of the common, and whose nature was far too child- 
_ like and poetic, and developed in far too simple a surrounding 
of labour and success, difficulty and conquest, danger and de- 
liverance, not to have more than the usual amount of what is 
called the romantic in its composition. 

The buzzing of his bee was for the present interrupted by the 
return of Blue Peter with his wife. She threw her arms round 
Malcolm’s neck, and burst into tears. 

“‘Hoots, my woman !” said her husband, “ wHat are ye greitin’ 
alr? 

“Eh, Peter!” she answered, “‘I canna help it. It’s jist like a 
deith. He’s gauin’ to lea’ us a’, an’ gang hame till ’s ain, an’ I 
canna bide ’at he sud grow strange-like to hiz ’at ha’e kenned 
him sae lang.” 

“Tell be an ill day,” returned Malcolm, “whan I grow strange 
to ony freen’. T’ll ha’e to gang far down the laich (ow) ro’d 
afore that be poassible. J mayna aye be able to du jist what ye 
wad like; but lippen ye to me: I s’ be fair to ye. An’ noo I 
want Blue Peter to gang wi’ me, an’ help me to what I ha’e to 
du—gien ye ha’e nae objection to lat him.” 


“Na, nane ha’e I. I wad gang mysel’ gien I cud be ony use,” 
answered Mrs Mair; “but women are?’ the gait whiles.” 

“Weel, I'll no even say thank ye; I’ll be awin’ ye that as 
weel’'s the lave. But gien I dinna du weel, it winna be the fau’t 
o ane or the ither o’ you twa, freen’s. Noo, Peter, we maun be 

aff.” 

“No the nicht, surely?” said Mrs Mair, a little taken oy 
surprise. 

“The suner the better, lass,” replied her husband. “ An’ we 
cudna ha’e a better win’. Tist rin ye hame, an’ get some vicktooals 
thegither, an’ come efter hiz to Portlossie.” 

“But hoo ‘ill ye get the boat to the watter ohn mair han’s? 
Pll need to come mysel’ an’ fess Jean.” 

“Na, na; let Jean sit. There’s plenty 1 the Seaton to help. 
We're gauin’ to tak’ the markis’s cutter. She’s a heap easier to 
lainch, an’ she'll sail a heap fester.” 

“But what'll Maister Crathie say 2” 

“We maun tak’ oor chance o’ that,” answered her husband, 
with a smile of confidence; and thereupon he and Malcolm set 
out for the Seaton, while. Mrs Mair went home to get ready 
some provisions for the voyage, consisting chiefly of oat- 
cakes. 

The prejudice against Malcolm from his imagined behaviour to 
Lizzy Findlay, had by this time, partly through the assurances of 
Peter, partly through the power ‘of the youth’s innocent presence, 
almost died out, and when the two men reached the Seaton, they 
found plenty of hands ready to help them to reach the little 
sloop. Malcolm said he was going to take her to Peterhead, 
and they asked no questions but such as he contrived to answer 
with truth, or to leave unanswered. Once afloat, there was very 
little to be done to her, for she had been laid up in perfect con- 


dition, and as soon as ‘Mrs Mair appeared with her basket, and ~ 


they had put that, a keg of water, some fishing-lines, and a pan 
of mussels for bait, on board, they were ready to sail, and wished 
their friends a light good- bye, leaving them to imagine they were 
gone but for a day or two, probably on some business of Mr 
Crathie’s. 

With the wind from the north-west, they soon reached Duff 
Harbour, where Malcolm went on shore and saw Mr Soutar. 
He, with a landsman’s prejudice, made strenuous objections to 
such a mad prank as sailing to London at that time of the year, 
but in vain. Malcolm saw nothing mad in it, and the lawyer had 
to admit he ought to know best. ‘He brought on board with him 


a lad of Peter's acquaintance. and now tully manned, they set sail 


= YOYAGE.TO LONDON. nes 


ae re 


26 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE, 


again, and by the time the sun appeared were not far from 
Peterhead. | 

Malcolm’s spirits kept rising as they bowled along over the 
bright cold waters. He never felt so capable as when at sea. 
His energies had been first called out in combat with the elements, 
and hence he always felt strongest, most at home, and surest of 
himself on the water. Young as he was, however, such had been 
his training under Mr Graham, that a large part of this elevation 
of spirit was owing to an unreasoned sense of being there more 
immediately in the hands of God. Later in life, he interpreted 
the mental condition thus—that of course he was always and in 
every place equally in God’s hands, but that at sea he felt the 
truth more keenly. Where a man has nothing firm under him, 
where his life depends on winds invisible and waters unstable, 
where a single movement may be death, he learns to feel what is 
at the same time just as true every night he spends asleep in the 
bed in which generations have slept before him, or any sunny 
hour he spends walking over ancestral acres. 

They put in at Peterhead, purchased a few provisions, and 
again set sail. 

And now it seemed to Malcolm that he must soon come to a 
conclusion as to the steps he must take when he reached London. 
But think as he would, he could plan nothing beyond finding 
out where his sister lived, going to look at the house, and getting 
into it if he might. Nor could his companion help him with any 
suggestions, and indeed he could not talk much with him because 
of the presence of Davy, a rough, round-eyed, red-haired young ~ 
Scot, of the dull invaluable class that can only do what they are 
told, but do that to the extent of their faculty. 

They knew all the coast as far as the Frith of Forth: after that 
they had to be more careful. They had no charts on board. nor 
could have made much use of any. But the wind continued 


- favourable, and the weather cold, bright, and full of life. They 


spoke many coasters on their way, and received many directions, 

Off the Nore they had rough weather, and had to stand off 
and on for a day and a night till it moderated. Then they spoke 
a fishing-boat, took a pilot on board, and were soon in smooth 
water. More and more they wondered as the channel narrowed 
and ended their voyage at length below London Bridge, in a very 
jungle of masts. 


LONDON STREETS. 29 


‘ CHAPTER XI. 
LONDON STREETS. 


LEAVING Davy to keep the sloop, the two fishermen went on 
shore. Passing from the narrow precincts of the river, they found 
themselves at once in the roar of London city. Stunned at first, 
then excited, then bewildered, then dazed, without plan to guide 
their steps, they wandered about until, unused to the hard stones, 
their feet ached. It was a dull day in March. A keen wind 
blew round the corners of the streets. ‘They wished themselves. 
at sea again. 

«Sic a sicht o’ fowk!” said Blue Peter. 

“It’s hard to think,” rejoined Malcolm, “what w’y the God ’at 
made them can luik efter them a’ in sic a tumult. But they say 
even the sheep-dog kens ilk sheep 7?’ the flock ’at ’s gien him in 
-chairge.” 

“Ay, but ye see,” said Blue Peter, “they’re mair like a shoal 

o’ herrin’ nor a flock oy sheep.” 

“Tt’s no the num’er o’ them ’at plagues me,” said Malcolm. 
“The gran’ diffeeculty is hoo He can lat ilk ane tak’ his ain gait 
an’ yet luik efter them a’. But gien He does'’t, it stan’s to rizzon 
it maun be in some w’y ’at them ’at’s sae luikit efter canna by 
ony possibeelity un’erstan’.” 

“That's trowth, I’m thinkin’. We maun jist gi’e up an’ con- 
fess there’s things abune a’ human comprehension.” 

“Wha kens but that maybe ’cause 1’ their verra natur’ they’re 
ower semple for cr’aturs like hiz ’at’s made sae mixed-like, an’ see 
sae little intill the hert o’ things?” 

“Vere ayont me there,” said Blue Peter, and a silence 
followed. 

It was a conversation very unsuitable to London Streets—but 
then these were raw Scotch fisherman, who had not yet learned 
how absurd it is to suppose ourselves come from anything greater 
than ourselves, and had no conception of the liberty it confers on 
a man to know that he is the child of a protoplasm, or something 
still more beautifully small. 

At length a policeman directed them to a Scotch eating-house, 
where they fared after their country’s fashions, and from the 
landlady gathered directions by which to guide themselves 
towards Curzon Street, a certain number in which Mr Soutar had 

given Malcolm as Lady Bellair’s address. 
_ The door was opened to Malcolm’s knock by a slatternly 


THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


charwoman, who, unable to understand a word he said, would, 


but for its fine frank expression, have shut the door in his face. 


From the expression of hers, however, Malcolm suddenly remem- 
bered that he must speak English, and having a plentiful store of 


____the book sort, he at once made himself intelligible in spite of 


tone and accent. It was, however, only a shifting of the difficulty, 


_ for he now found it nearly impossible to understand her. But by 


repeated questioning and hard listening he learnt at last that 
Lady Bellair had removed her establishment to Lady Lossie’s 


‘tale house in Portland Place. 


After many curious perplexities, odd blunders, and vain en- 
deavours to understand shop-signs and notices in the windows ; 
after they had again and again imagined themselves back at a 
place they had left miles away ; after many a useless effort to lay 
hold of directions given so rapidly that the very sense could not 
gather the sounds, they at length stood—not in Portland Place, 
but in front of Westminster Abbey. Inquiring what it was, and 
finding they could go in, they entered. 

For some moments not a word was spoken between them, but 


when they had walked slowly half-way up the nave Malcolm 
‘turned and said, “‘ Eh, Peter! sic a blessin’!” and Peter replied, | 


“There canna be muckle o’ this 7? the warl’!” Comparing 
impressions afterwards, Peter said that the moment he stepped 
in, he heard the rush of the tide on the rocks of Scaurnose; and 
Malcolm declared he felt as if he had stepped out of the world 


“into the regions of eternal silence. 


“What a mercy it maun be,” he went on, “to mony a cratur’, 
in sic a whummle an’ a rum’le an’ a remish as this Lon’on, to 
ken ’at there is sic a cave howkit oot o’ the din, ’at he can gang 
intill an’ say his prayers intill! Man, Peter! I’m jist some 


feared whiles ’at the verra din ’ my lugs mayna ’maist drive the 
- thoucht o’ God oot o’ me.” 


At length they found their way into Regent Street, and leaving 
its mean assertion behind, reached the stately modesty of 
Portland Place ; and Malcolm was pleased to think the house he 


- sought was one of those he now saw. 


_ It was one of the largest in the Place. He would not, however, 
yield to the temptation to have a good look at it, for fear of 


attracting attention from its windows and being recognised. 


They turned therefore aside into some of the smaller thorough: 
fares lying between Portland Place and Great Portland Street, 
where searching about, they came upon a decent-looking public- 
house and inquired after lodgings. They were directed to a 


- woman in the neighbourhood, who kept a dingy little curiosity- 


‘LONDON STREETS. 29 


shop. On payment of a week’s rent in advance, she allowed 
them asmall bedroom. But Malcolm did not want Peter with 
him that night ; he wished to be perfectly free ; and besides it _ 
was more than desirable that Peter should go and look after the 
boat and the boy. 

Left alone he fell once more to his hitherto futile scheming : 
Itow was he to get near his sister? ‘To the whitest of lies he 
had insuperable objection, and if he appeared before her with no 
reason to give, would she not be far too offended with his 
- presumption to retain him in her service? And except he could 
be near her as her servant, he did not see a chance of doing 
anything for her without disclosing facts which might make all 
such service as he would most gladly render her impossible, by 
causing her to hate the very sight of him. Plan after plan rose 
and passed from his mind rejected, and the only resolution he 
could come to was to write to Mr Soutar, to whom he had com- 
mitted the protection of Kelpie, to send her up by the first 
smack from Aberdeen. He did so, and wrote also to Miss 
Horn, telling her where he was, then went out, and made his way 
back to Portland Place. | 

Night had. closed in, and thick vapours hid the moon, but 
lamps and lighted windows illuminated the wide street. Presently 
it began to snow. But through the snow and the night went 
carriages in all directions, with great lamps that turned the flakes 
into white stars for a moment as they gleamed past. The hoofs 
of the horses echoed hard from the firm road. 

Could that house really belong to him? It did, yet he dared 
not enter it. ‘That which was dear and precious to him was in 
the house, and just because of that he could not call it his own. 
There was less light in it than in any other within his range. He 
walked up and down the opposite side of the street its whole 
length some fifty times, but saw no sign of vitality about the 
house. At length a brougham stopped at the door, and a man 
got out and knocked. Malcolm instantly crossed, but could not 
see his face. ‘The door opened, and he entered. The brougham 
waited. After about a quarter of an hour he came out again, 
accompanied by two ladies, one of whom he judged by her figure 
to be Florimel. ‘They all got into the carriage, and Malcolm 
braced himself for a terrible run. But the coachman drove care- 
fully, the snow lay a few inches deep, and he found no difficulty 
in keeping near the.1, following with fleet foot and husbanded 
breath. 

They stopped at the doors of a large dark-looking building in 
a narrow street. He thought it was a church, and wondered that 


30 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


his sister should be going there on a week night. Nor did the 
aspect of the entrance hall, into which he followed them, 
undeceive him. It was more showy, certainly, than the vestibule 
of any church he had ever been in before, but what might not 
churches be in London? ‘They went up a great flight of stairs— 
to reach the gallery, as he thought, and still he went after them. 
When he reached the top, they were just vanishing round a curve, 
and his advance was checked: a man came up to him, said he 


could not come there, and gruffly requested him to show his 
ticket. 


“TI haven't got one. What is this place?” said Malcolm, whom 
the aspect of the man had suddenly rendered doubtful, mouthing 
his English with Scotch deliberation. 

The man gave him a look of contemptuous surprise, and 
turning to another who lounged behind him with his hands in his 
pockets, said— 

“Tom, here’s a gentleman as wants to know where he is: can 
you tell him?” 

The person addressed laughed, and gave Malcolm a queer look. 

“Every cock crows on his own midden,” said Malcolm, “ but 
if I were on mine, I would try to be civil.” 

“You go down there, and pay for a pit ticket, and you'll soon 
know where you are, mate,” said Tom. 

Malcolm obeyed, and after a few inquiries, and the outlay of 
two shillings, found himself in the pit of one of the largest of the 
London theatres, 


CHAPTER X 
THE TEMPEST. 


THE play was begun, and the stage was the centre of light. 
Thither Malcolm’s eyes were drawn the instant he entered. He 
was all but unaware of the multitude of faces about him, and his 
attention was at once fascinated by the lovely show revealed in 
soft radiance. But surely he had seen the vision before! One 
long moment its effect upon him was as real as if he had been 


actually deceived as to its nature: was it not the shore between 


Scaurnose and Portlossie, betwixt the Boar’s Tail and the sea? 
and was not that the marquis, his father, in his dressing- gown, 


THE TEMPEST. Ps aay 


pacing to and fro upon the sands? He yielded himself to 
illusion—abandoned himself to the wonderful, and looked only 
for what would come next. 

A lovely lady entered: to his excited fancy it was Florimel. 
A moment more and she spoke. 


If by your art, my dearest father, you have 
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. 


Then first he understood that before him rose in wondrous 
realization the play of Shakspere he knew best—the first he had 
ever read: Zhe Tempest, hitherto a lovely phantom for the mind’s 
eye, now embodied to the enraptured sense. During the whole 
of the first act he never thought either of Miranda or Florimel 
apart. At the same time so taken was he with the princely 
carriage and utterance of Ferdinand that, though with a sigh, he ~ 
consented he should have his sister. 

The drop-scene had fallen for a minute or two before he began 
to look around him. A moment more and he had commenced 
a thorough search for his sister amongst the ladies in the boxes. 
But when at length he found her, he dared not fix his eyes upon 
her lest his gaze should make her look at him, and she should 
recognise him. Alas, her eyes might have rested on him twenty 
times without his face once rousing in her mind the thought of the 
fisher-lad of Portlossie! All that had passed between them in 
the days already old was virtually forgotten. 

By degrees he gathered courage, and soon began to feel that » 
there was small chance indeed of her eyes alighting upon him for 
the briefest of moments. ‘Then he looked more closely, and felt 
through rather than saw with his eyes that some sort of change 
had already passed upon her. It was Florimel, yet not the very 
Florimel he had known. Already something had begun to sup- 
plant the girl-freedom that had formerly in every look and motion 
asserted itself. She was more beautiful, but not so lovely in his 
eyes ; much of what had charmed him had vanished. She was 
more stately, but the stateliness had a little hardness mingled 
with it: and could it be that the first of a cloud had already 
gathered on her forehead? Surely she was not so happy as she 
had been at Lossie House. She was dressed in black, with a 
white flower in her hair. 

Beside her sat the bold-faced countess, and behind them her 
nephew, Lord Meikleham that was—now Lord Liftore. A fierce 
indignation seized the heart of Malcolm at the sight. Behind 
the form of the earl, his mind’s eye saw that of Lizzy, out in the ~ 
wind on the Boar’s Tail, her old shawl wrapped about herself 


32 TAE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


and the child of the man who sat there so composed and com- 
fortable. His features were fine and clear-cut, his shoulders 
bread, and his head well set: he had much improved since 
Malcolm offered to fight him with one hand in the dining-room 
of Lossie House. Every now and then he leaned forward 
between his aunt and Florimel, and spoke to the latter. To 
Malcolm’s eyes she seemed to listen with some haughtiness. 
Now and then she cast him an indifferent glance. Malcolm was 
pleased: Lord Liftore was anything but the Ferdinand to whom 
he could consent to yield his Miranda. They would make a 
fine couple certainly, but for any other fitness, knowing what he 
did, Malcolm was glad to perceive none. The more annoyed 
was he when once or twice he fancied he caught a look between 
them that indicated more than acquaintanceship—-some sort of 
intimacy at least. But he reflected that in the relation in which 
they stood to Lady Bellair it could hardly be otherwise. 

The play was tolerably well put upon the stage, and free of 
the absurdities attendant upon too ambitious an endeavour to 
represent to the sense things which Shakspere and the dramatists 
of his period freely committed to their best and most powerful 
ally, the willing imagination of the spectators. The opening of 
the last scene, where Ferdinand and Miranda are discovered at 
chess, was none the less effective for its simplicity, and Malcolm 
was turning from a delighted gaze at its loveliness to glance at 
his sister and her companions, when his eyes fell on a face near 
him in the pit which had fixed an absorbed regard in the same 
direction. It was that of a man a few years older than himself, 
with irregular features, but a fine mouth, large chin, and great 
forehead. Under the peculiarly prominent eyebrows shone dark 
eyes of wondrous brilliancy and seeming penetration. Malcolm 
could not but suspect that his gaze was upon his sister, but as 


they were a long way from the boxes, he could not be certain, - 


Once he thought he saw her look at him, but of that also he 
could be in no wise certain. ' 

He knew the play so well that he rose just in time to reach 
the pit-door ere exit should be impeded with the outcomers, and 
thence with some difficulty he found his way to the foot of the 
stair up which those he watched had gone. ‘There he had stood 
btit a little while, when he saw in front of him, almost within 
reach of an outstretched hand, the same young man waiting also. 
After what seemed a long time, he saw his sister and her two 
companions come slowly down the stair in the descending crowd, 


_ Her eyes seemed searching amongst the multitude that filled the - 


lobby. Presently an indubitable glance of still recognition 


DEMON AND THE PIPES. ng 


passed between them, and by a slight movement the young man > 
placed himself so that she must pass next him in the crowd. — 


Malcolm got one place nearer in the change, and thought they 
grasped hands. She turned her head slightly back, and seemed 
to put a question—with her lips only. He replied in the same 
manner. A light rushed into her face and vanished. But not 
a feature moved and not a word had been spoken. Neither of 
her companions had seen the dumb show, and her friend stood 
where he was till they had left the house. Malcolm stood also, 


much inclined to follow him when he went, but, his attention 


having been attracted for a moment in another direction, 
when he looked again he had disappeared. He sought him 
where he fancied he saw the movement of his vanishing, but 
was soon convinced of the uselessness of the attempt, and 
walked home. 

Before he reached his lodging, he had resolved on making 
trial of a plan which had more than once occurred to him, but 
had as often been rejected as too full of the risk- of repulse, 


Ge OCAP DE, Root 
DEMON AND THE PIPEo. 


His plan was to watch the house until he saw some entertain- 
ment going on, then present himself as if he had but just arrived 
from her ladyship’s country seat. At such a time no one would 
acquaint-her with his appearance, and he would, as if it were 
but a matter of course, at once take his share in waiting on 
the guests. By this means he might perhaps get her a little 
accustomed to his presence before she could be at leisure to 
challenge it, 

When he put Kelpie in her stall the last time for a season, 
and ran into the house to get his plaid for Lizzy, who was waiting 
him near the tunnel, he bethought himself that he had better 
take with him also what other of his personal requirements 
he could carry. He looked about therefore, and finding 
a large carpet-bag in one of the garret rooms, hurried into it 
some of his clothes—amongst them the Highland dress he had 
worn as henchman to the marquis, and added the great Lossie 
pipes his father had given to old Duncan as well, but which the 


piper had not taken with him when he left Lossie House. The 


C 


A OT Pee ae og eee CF F 
a Wa H r r ay eek 


, 7 4) oo am la ne Oe ae ee Se eee Ee ee se) Oe ee ee eee SRS me a Fs en, Pe ts See. 
regs PB aP ERB eae ee ee a RD See RD VO Ba, Eee Ged IE ORR gM : 
’ % bee 7 a a 
an cam” - - «mm “, =< f 


Tet 


THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


said Highland dress he now resolved to put on, as that in which 


latterly Florimel had been most used to see him: in it he would ~ 


watch his opportunity of gaining admission to the house. 

The next morning Blue Peter made his appearance early. 
They went out together, spent the day in sight-seeing, and, 
on Malcolm’s part chiefly, in learning the topography of 
London. 

- In Hyde Park Malcolm told his friend that he had sent for 
Kelpie. 

“She'll be the deid o’ ye i’ thae streets, as fu’ o’ wheels as the 
sea o’ fish: twize I’ve been ’maist gr’un to poother o’ my ro’d 
here,” said Peter. ° 

“‘ Ay, but ye see, oot here amo’ the gentry it’s no freely sae 
ill, an’ the ro’ds are no a’ stane; an’ here, ye see, ’s the place 
whaur they come, leddies an’ a’, to ha’e their rides thegither. 
What I’m fleyt for is ’at she’ll be brackin’ legs wi her deevilich 
kickin’.” 

“ Haud her upo’ dry strae an’ watter for a whilie, till her banes 
begin to cry oot for something to hap them frae the cauld: 
that'll quaiet her a bit,’’ said Peter. | 

“It's a ye ken!” returned Malcolm. “She’s aye the wau- 


natur’d, the less she has to ate. Na,na; she maun be weel . 


lined. ‘The deevil in her maun lie warm, or she’ll be neither to 
haud nor bin’. There’s nae doobt she’s waur to haud ‘in whan 
she’s in guid condeetion ; but she’s nane sae like to tak’ a body 
by the sma’ o’ the back, an’ shak the inside oot o’ ’im, as she 
’maist did ae day to the herd-laddie at the ferm, only he had an 
auld girth aboot the mids o’ ’im for a belt, an’ he tuik the less 
scaith.” 

““Cudna we gang an’ see the maister the day?” said Blue 
Peter, changing the subject. 

He meant Mr Graham, the late schoolmaster of Portlossie, 
whom the charge of heretical teaching had driven from the 
place. 

“‘We canna weel du that till we hear whaur he is. The last 
time Miss Horn h’ard frae him, he was changin’ his lodgin’s, an’ 
ye see the kin’ o’ a place this Lon’on is,” answered Malcolm. 

As soon as Peter was gone, to return to the boat, Malcolm 
dressed himself in his kilt and its belongings, and when it was 
fairly dusk, took his pipes under his arm, and set out for Port- 


land Place. He had the better hope of speedy success to his 


plan, that he fancied he had read on his sister’s lips, in the 
silent communication that passed between her and her friend in 
the crowd, the words come and to-morrow. It might have been 


DEMON AND THE PIPES. 35 


the merest imagination, yet it was something: how often have 
we not to be grateful for shadows! Up and down the street he 
walked a long time, without seeing a sign of life about the house. 
But at length the hall was lighted. Then the door opened, and 
a servant rolled out-a carpet over the wide pavement, which the’ 
snow had left wet and miry—a signal for the street children, ever 
on the outlook for sights, to gather. Before the first carriage 
arrived, there was already a little crowd of humble watchers and 
waiters about the gutter and curb-stone. But they were not 
destined to much amusement that evening, the visitors amount- 
ing only to a small dinner-party. Still they had the pleasure of 
seeing a few grand ladies issue from their carriages, cross the 
stage of their Epiphany, the pavement, and vanish in the paradise 
of the shining hall, with its ascent of gorgeous stairs. No broken 
steps, no missing balusters there! And they have the show all 
for nothing! It is one of the perquisites of street-service. What 
one would give to see the shapes glide over the field of those 
camerze obscure, the hearts of the street Arabs! once to gaze 
on the jewelled beauties through the eyes of those shocked-haired 
girls! I fancy they do not often begrudge them what they 
possess, except perhaps when feature or hair or motion chances 
to remind them of some one of their own people, and they feel 
wronged and indignant that s/e should flaunt in such splendour, 
* when our Sally would set off grand clothes so much better !” 
It is neither the wealth nor the general consequence it confers 
that they envy, but, as I imagine, the power of making a show 
—of living in the eyes and knowledge of neighbours for a few 
radiant moments: nothing is so pleasant to ordinary human 
nature as to know itself by its reflection from others. When it 
turns from these warped and broken mirrors to seek its reflection 
in the divine thought, then it is redeemed ; then it beholds itself 
in the perfect law of liberty. 

Before he became himself an object of curious interest to the 
crowd he was watching, Malcolm had come to the same con- 
clusion with many a philosopher and observer of humanity 
before him—that on the whole the rags are inhabited by the 
easier hearts; and he would have arrived at the conclusion 
with more certainty but for the /zgh training that cuts off 
intercourse between heart and face. 

When some time had elapsed, and no more carriages 
appeared, Malcolm, judging the dinner must now be in full 
vortex, rang the bell of the front door. It was opened by a 
huge footman, whose head was so small in proportion that his 
body seemed to have absorbed it. Malcolm would have 


stepped i in at once, and told what of his tale he chose at tie 
A sure ; but the servant, who had never seen the dress Malcolm 
wore, except on street-beggars, with the instinct his class shares 

vith watch-dogs, quickly closed the door. Ere it reached the — 
St, newever, it found Malcolm’s foot between. . 
« Wo along, Scotchy. You’re not wanted here,” said the man 
eae the door hard. “ Police is round the corner.” 


Now one of the weaknesses Malcolm owed to his Celtic 


ae 


$ 

. . \ 
’ ral Oe i 9 ae nae 
A ‘ a up? ee 


blood was an utter impatience of rudeness. In his own — e 
nature entirely courteous, he was wrathful even to absurdity at fo 
the slightest suspicion of insult. But that, in part through the 
influence of Mr Graham, the schoolmaster, he had learned to 


es 
4 
a 


keep a firm hold on the reins of action, this ' foolish feeling 
would not unfrequently have hurried him into conduct undigni-  _ 
_ fied. On the present occasion, I fear the main part of “his ee. 

answer, but for the shield of the door, would have beena blow 
to fell a bigger man than the one that now glared at him through e 
_ the shoe-broad opening. As it was, his words were fierce with 


Pe 


suppressed wrath. . i. 
“Open the door, an’ lat me in,” was, however, all he said. © es a 

“ What’s your business?” asked the man, on whom his tone uy 
had its effect. oe, 

_ “My business is with my Lady Lossie,” said Malcolm, ré- 
3 covering his English, which was one step towards mastering, ities af 
“ot recovering, his temper. rag 
“You can’t see her. She’s at dinner.” os! 
Let me in, and I’ll wait. I come from Lossie House.” eee 
is ae Take away your foot and I'll go and see,” said the man. 7 
SONo. You open the door,” returned Malcolm. a 
The man’s answer was an attempt to kick his foot out of the es 


_ doorway. If he were to let in a tramp what would the butler | ee 
say? Be. 
But thereupon Malcolm set his port-vent to his mont z 
rapidly filled his bag, while the man stared as if it were a 
petard with which he was about to blow the door to shivers, E 
and then sent from the instrument such a shriek, as it galloped oS 
_ off into the Lossie Gathering, that involuntarily his adversary 
_ pressed both hands to his ears. With a sudden application of 
his | knee Malcolm sent the door wide, and entered the hall, 
ae with his pipes in full cry. The house resounded with their. “a 
“ai yell—but only for one moment. For down the stair, like bolt — 
- from catapult, came Demon, Florimel’s huge Irish stag-hound, 
and springing on Malcolm, put an instant end to his music. ; 
ma The footman laughed with exultation, expecting to see him cons : 


- DEMON AND THE PIPES. 37 


to pieces. But when instead he saw the fierce animal, a foot 
on each of his shoulders, licking. Malcolm’s face with long fiery 
tongue, he began to doubt. 

“The dog knows you,” he said sulkily. 

So shall you, before long,” returned Malcolm. ‘“ Was it my 
fault that I made the mistake of looking for civility from you ? 
One word to the dog, and he has you by the throat.” 

“Tl go and fetch Wallis,” said the man, and closing the 
door, left the hall. 

Now this Wallis had been a fellow-servant of Malcolm’s at 
Lossie House, but he did not know that he had gone with 
Lady Beliair when she took Florimel away: almost everyone 
had left at the same time. He was now glad indeed to learn 
that there was one amongst the servants who knew him. 

Wallis presently made his appearance, with a disk in his 
hands, on his way to the dining-room, from which came the 
confused noises of the feast. 

“You'll be come up to wait on Lady Lossie,” he said. “I 
haven’t a moment to speak to you now, for we’re at dinner, 
and there’s a party.” 

“Never mind me.. Give me that dish; I'll take it in: you 


can go for another,” said Malcolm, laying his pipes in a safe ~ 
g ’ » laying pip 


spot. 

“You can’t go into the dining-room that figure,” said Wallis, 
who was in the Bellair livery. 

“This is how I waited on my lord,” returned Malcolm, “and 
this is how Pll wait on my lady.” 

Wallis hesitated. But there was that about the fisher-fellow 
was too much for him. As he spoke, Malcolm took the dish 
from his hands, and with it walked into the dining-room. 

There one reconnoitring glance was sufficient. The butler 
was at the sideboard opening a champagne botile. He had 
cut wire and strings, and had his hand on the cork as Malcolm 
walked up to him. It was a critical moment, yet he stopped 
in the very article, and stared at the apparition. 

“Tm Lady Lossie’s man from Lossie House. Ill help you 
to wait,” said Malcolm. 

To the eyes of the butler he looked a savage. But there he 
was in the room with the dish in his hands, and tiimead at 
least intelligibly ; ; the cork of the champagne bottle was pushing 
hard against nis palm, and he had no time to question. He 
peeped into Malcolm’s dish. 

“Take it round, then,” he said. So Malcolm settled into the 
business of the hour. 


f ose 
Bi te 


Al > , 9. eS 
POS ae ae 
4 tak YF . 
ee 
f uae 7") Sie 
" ee LW 
. 


wie Me 


38 «THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


It was some time, after he knew where she was, before he 


ventured to look at his sister: he would have her already 


familiarised with his presence before their eyes met. That 
crisis did not arrive during dinner. 

Lord Liftore was one of the company, and so, to Malcolm’s 
pleasure, for he felt in him an ally against the earl, was Flori- 


‘mel’s mysterious friend. 
y 


CHAPTER XII. 
A NEW LIVERY. 


Scarcety had the ladies gone to the drawing-room, when 
Florimel’s maid, who knew Malcolm, came in quest of him. 
Lady Lossie desired to see him. 

“What is the meaning of this, MacPhail?” she said, when 
he entered the room where she sat alone. ‘I did not send for 
you. Indeed, I thought you had been dismissed with the rest 
of the servants.” 

How differently she spoke! And she used to call him 
Malcolm! The girl Florimel was gone, and there sat—the 
marchioness, was it >—or some phase of riper womanhood only? 


It mattered little to Malcolm. He was no curious student of 


man or woman. He loved his kind too well to study it. But 
one thing seemed plain: she had forgotten the half friendship 
and whole service that had had place betwixt them, and it made 
him feel as if the soul of man no less than his life were but as a 
vapour that appeareth for a little and then vanisheth away. 

But Florimel had not so entirely forgotten the past as 
Malcolm thought—not so entirely at least but that his appear- 


ance, and certain difficulties in which she had begun to find her- 


self, brought something of it again to her mind. 

“TI thought,” said Malcolm, assuming his best English, “‘ your 
ladyship might not choose to part with an old servant at the will 
of a factor, and so took upon me to appeal to your ladyship to 
decide the question.” 

“But how is that? Did you not return to your fishing when 


_the household was broken up?” 


“No, my lady. Mr Crathie kept me to help Stoat, and do 
odd jobs about the place.” 

“And now he wants to discharge you?” 

Then Malcolm told her, the whole story, in which he gave 


A NEW LIVERY. 39 


such a description of Kelpie, that her owner, as she imagined 


- 


education and previous life.” 


herself, expressed a strong wish to see her; for Florimel was 
almost passionately fond of horses. | 

“You may soon do that, my lady,” said Malcolm. “Mr 
Soutar, not being of the same mind as Mr Crathie, is going to 
send her up. It will be but the cost of the passage from 
Aberdeen, and she will fetch a better price here if your ladyship 
should resolve to part with her. She won’t fetch the third of her 
value anywhere, though, on account of her bad temper and ugly 
tricks.” 

“ But as to yourself, MacPhail—where are you going to go?” 
said Florimel. ‘I don’t like to send you away, but, if I keep 
you, I don’t know what to do with you. No doubt you could 
serve in the house, but that would not be suitable at all to your 

“A body wad tak’ you for a granny grown !” said Malcolm to 
himself. But to Florimel he replied—‘“ If your ladyship should 
wish to keep Kelpie, you will have to keep me too, for not 
a creature else will she let near her.” 

“And pray tell me what use then can I make of such an 
animal,” said Florimel. 

“Your ladyship, I should imagine, will want a groom to 
attend you when you are out on horseback, and the groom will 
want a horse—and here am I and Kelpie!” answered Malcolm. 

Florimel laughed. 

“I see,” she said. “You contrive I shall have a horse no- 
body can manage but yourself.” 

She rather liked the idea of a groom so mounted, and had 
too much well-justified faith in Malcolm to anticipate dangerous 
results. 

“My lady,” said Malcolm, appealing to her knowledge of 
his character to secure credit, for he was about to use his last 
means of persuasion, and as he spoke, in his eagerness he 
relapsed into his mother-tongue,—“ My lady, did I ever tell ye 
aleer ” 

“Certainly not, Malcolm, so far as I know. Indeed I am 


sure you never did,” answered Florimel, looking up at him in a 


- dominant yet kindly way. 


“Then,” continued Malcolm, “I'll tell your ladyship some- 
thing you may find hard to believe, and yet is as true as that I 
loved your ladyship’s father.—Your ladyship knows he had a 
kindness for me.” 


*T do know it,” answered Florimel gently, moved by the tone 


of Malcolm’s voice, and the expression of his countenance. 


WR ys See 


Ba ats THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


“Then I make bold to tell your ladyship that on his deathbed 
_ your father desired me to do my best for you—took my word 
that I would be your ladyship’s true servant.” 

“Ts it so, indeed, Malcolm?” returned Florimel, with a 
serious wonder in her tone, and looked him in the face with an 
earnest gaze. She had loved her father, and it sounded in her 
ears almost like a message from the tomb. 

“It’s as true as I stan’ here, my leddy,” said Malcolm. 

Florimel was silent fora moment. ‘Then she said, 

“ How is it that only now you come to tell me?” 

“Your father never desired me to’tell you, my lady—only he 
never imagined you would want to part with me, I suppose. 
But when you did not care to keep me, and never said a word 
to me when you went away, I could not tell how to do as I had 
promised him. It wasn’t that one hour I forgot his wish, but 
that I feared to presume ; for if I should displease your ladyship 
my chance was gone. So I kept about Lossie House as long 
as I could, hoping to see my way to some plan or other. But 
when at length Mr Crathie turned me away, what was I to do 
but come to your ladyship? And if your ladyship will let things 
be as before in the way of service, 1 mean—I canna doot, my 
leddy, but it'll be pleesant i’ the sicht o’ yer father, whanever he 
may come to ken o’ ’t, my lady.” 

__ Florimel gave him a strange, half-startled look. Hardly more 

than once since her father’s funeral had she heard him alluded 
to, and now this fisher-lad spoke of him as if he were still at 
Lossie House. 

Malcolm understood the look. 

“ Ye mean, my leddy—I ken what ye mean,” he said. “I 
canna help it. For to lo’e onything is to ken’t immortal. He’s 


livin’ to me, my lady.” 


Florimel continued staring, and still said nothing. 

I sometimes think that the present belief in mortality is 
nothing but the almost universal although unsuspected unbelief 
in immortality grown vocal and articulate. 

But Malcolm gathered courage and went on, 

‘Av’ what for no, my leddy?” he said, floundering no more 
in attempted English, but soaring on the clumsy wings of his 
mother-dialect. ‘ Didna he turn his face to the licht afore he 
dee’d? an’ him ’at rase frae the deid said ’at whaever believed in 
him sud never dee. Sae we maun believe at he’s livin’, for gien 
we dinna believe what Ze says, what aze we to believe, my 

leddy?” > 
' Florimel continued yet a moment looking him fixedly in the 


Pe. sie * 


ih cx Fides sag “VapBh tags Sat gts cael aia aa 
A NEW LIVERY. 4l 


face. The thought did arise that perhaps he had lost his reason, 
but she could not look at him thus and even imagine it. 
She remembered how strange he had always been, and for a 


- moment had a glimmering idea that in this young man’s friend- 
ship she possessed an incorruptible treasure. The calm, truth- 


ful, believing, almost for the moment enthusiastic, expression of 
the young fisherman’s face wrought upon her with a strangely 
quieting influence. It was as if one spoke to her out of a region 
of existence of which she had never even heard, but in whose 
reality she was compelled to believe because of the sound of 
the voice that came from it. 

Malcolm seldom made the mistake of stamping into the earth 
any seeds of truth he might cast on it: he knew when to say no 
more, and for a time neither spoke. But now for all the cool- 
ness Of her upper crust, Lady Florimel’s heart glowed—not 
indeed with the power of the shining truth Malcolm had uttered, 
but with the light of gladness in the - possession of such a strong, 
devoted, disinterested squire. : 

«1 wish you to understand,” she said at length, “that I am 
not at present mistress of this house, although it “belongs to me. 
Iam but the guest of Lady Bellair, who ‘has rented it of my 
guardians. I cannot therefore arrange for you to be here. 
But you can find accommodation in the neighbourhood, and come 
to me every day for orders. Let me know when your mare 
arrives: I shall not want you till then. . You will find room for 
her in the stables. You had better consult the butler about your . 


- groom ’s-livery.” 


Malcolm was astonished at the womanly sufficiency with which 
she gave her orders. He left her with the gladness of one who has 
had his righteous desire, held consultation with the butler on the 
matter of “the livery, and went home to his lodging. ‘There he 
sat down and meditated. 

A strange new yearning pity rose in his heart as he thought 
about his sister and the sad facts of her lonely condition. 
He feared much that her stately composure was built mainly on 
her imagined position in society, and was.not the outcome of 
her character. Would it be cruelty to destroy that false founda- 
tion, hardly the more false as a foundation for composure that 
beneath it lay a mistake >—or was it not rather a justice which 
her deeper and truer self had a right to demand of him? At 
present, however, he need not attempt to answer the question. 
Communication even such as a trusted groom might have with 
her, and familiarity with her surroundings, would probably reveal 
much. Meantime it was enough that he would now be so near 


Case THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


her that no important change of which others might be aware, 
could well approach her without his knowledge, or anything take 
place without his being able to interfere if necessary. 


CHAPTER XIII. 
TWO CONVERSATIONS. 


THE next day Wallis came to see Malcolm and take him to the 
tailor’s. They talked about the guests of the previous evening. 

‘“ There’s a great change on Lord Meikleham,” said Malcolm. 

“ There is that,” said Wallis. ‘I consider him much improved. 
But you see he’s succeeded ; he’s the earl now, and Lord Liftore 
—and a menseful, broad-shouldered man to the boot of the 
bargain. He used to be such a windle-straw!” 

In order to speak good English, Wallis now and then, like 
some Scotch people of better education, anglicized a word 
ludicrously. 

“Ts there no news of his marriage?” asked Malcolm ; adding, 
“they say he has great property.” 

“‘ My love she’s but a lassie yet,” said Wallis, ““—though she 
too has changed quite as much as my lord.” 

“Who are you speaking of?” asked Malcolm, anxious to 
hear the talk of the household on the matter. 

‘Why, Lady Lossie, of course. Anybody with half an eye 
can see as much as that.” 

His at-settied then?” 

_ “That would be hard to say. Her ladyship is too like her 
father: no one can tell what may be her mind the next minute. 
But, as I say, she’s young, and ought to have her fling first—so 
far, that is, as we can permit it to a woman of her rank. Still, as 
I say, anybody with half an eye can see the end of it all: he’s 
for ever hovering about her. My lady, too, has set her mind on 
it, and for my part I can’t see what better she can do. I must 
say I approve of the match. I can see no possible objection to 
it.” 

““We used to think he drank too much,” suggested Malcolm. 

“Claret,” said Wallis, in a tone that seemed to imply no one 
could drink too much of that. 


“No, not claret only. I’ve seen the whisky follow the 


claret.” 
Well, he don’t now—not whisky at least. He don’t drink 


Na ri 


Ws 


TWO CONVERSATIONS. 43 


too much—not much too much—not more than a gentleman 
should. He don’t look like it—does he now? A good wife, 
such as my Lady Lossie will make him, will soon set him all. 
night. I think of taking a similar protection myself, one of these 


, d ays.” 


“He is not worthy of her,” said Malcolm. 

“Well, I confess his family won’t compare with hers. There’s 
a grandfather in it somewhere that was a banker or a brewer or 
a soap-boiler, or something of the sort, and she and her people 
have been earls and marquises ever since they walked arm in 
arm out of the ark. But, bless you! all that’s been changed 
since I came to town. So long as there’s plenty of money and 
the mind to spend it, we have learned not to be exclusive. It’s 
selfish that. It’s not Christian. Everything lies in the mind to 
spend it though. Mrs Tredger—that’s our lady’s-maid—only 
this is a secret—says it’s all settled—she knows it for certain fact 
—only there’s nothing to be said about it yet—she’s so young, 
you know.” 

- “ Who was the man that sat nearly opposite my lady, on the 
other side of the table?” asked Malcolm. 

“I know who you mean. Didn't look as if he'd got any busi- 
ness there—not like the rest of them, did he? No, they never 
do. Odd and end sort of people like he is, never do look the 
right thing—let them try ever so hard. How can they when they 
ain't it? That’s a fellow that’s painting Lady Lossie’s portrait ! 
Why he should be asked to dinner for that, I’m sure I can’t tell. 
He ain’t paid for it in victuals, is he? I never saw such land- 
leapers let into Lossie House, Zknow! But London’s an awful 
place. There’s no such a thing as respect of persons here. Here 
you meet the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker, any 
night in my lady’s drawing-room. I declare to you, Mawlcolm 
MacPhail, it makes me quite uncomfortable at times to think 
who I may have been waiting upon without knowing it. For 
that painter fellow, Lenorme they call him, I could knock him © 
on the teeth with the dish every time I hold it to him. And to 
see him stare at Lady Lossie as he does!” 

“A painter must want to get a right good hold of the face he’s 
got to paint,” said Malcolm. “Is he here often?” 

“e’s been here five or six times already,” answered Wallis, 
“and how many times more I may have to fill his glass, I don’t 
know. J always give him second-best sherry, 7 know. I’m sure 
the time that pictur’ ’s been on hand! He ought to be ashamed 
of himself. If she’s been once to his studio, she’s been twenty 
times—to give him sittings as they call it. He’s making a pretty 


44 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTIE. 


| penny of it, ’ll be bound! I wonder he has the cheek to show 
_ himself when my lady treats him so haughtily. But those sort 


of people have no proper feelin’s, you see: it’s not to be expected 


-of such.” 


Wallis liked the sound of his own sentences, and a great deal 
more talk of similar character followed before they got back from 


_ the tailor’s. Malcolm was tired enough of him, and never felt 


the difference between man and man more strongly than when, 
after leaving him, he set out for a walk with Blue Peter, whom he 
found waiting him at his lodging. On this same Blue Peter, 
however, Wallis would have looked down from the height of his 
share of the marquisate as one of the lower orders—ignorant, 
vulgar, even dirty. 

They had already gazed together upon not a few of the mar- 
vels of London, but nothing had hitherto moved or drawn them 
so much as the ordinary flow of the currents of life through the 
huge city. Upon Malcolm, however, this had now begun to pall, 
while Peter already found it worse than irksome, and longed for 
Scaurnose. At the same time loyalty to Malcolm kept him from 
uttering a whisper of his home-sickness. It was yet but the fourth 
day they had been in London. 

“Eh, my lord !” said Blue Peter, when by chance they found 
themselves in the lull of a little quiet court, somewhere about 
Gray’s Inn, with the roar of Holborn in their ears, “it’s like a 
month sin’ I was at the kirk. I’m feart the din’s gotten into my 
heid, an’ I'll never get it oot again. I cud maist wuss I was a 
mackerel, for they tell me the fish hears naething, I ken weel 


noo what ye meant, my lord, whan ye said ye dreidit the din 


micht gar ye forget yer Macker.” 

“I hae been wussin’ sair mysel’, this last twa days,” responded 
Malcolm, “’at I cud get ae sicht o’ the jaws clashin’ upo’ the 
Scaurnose, or rowin up upo’ the edge o’ the links. The din o’ 
natur’ never troubles the guid thouchts in ye. I reckon it’s 
‘cause it’s a kin’ o’ a harmony in ’tsel’, an’ a harmony’s jist, as the 
maister used to say, a higher kin’ 0’ a peace. Yon organ ’at we 
hearkent till ae day ootside the kirk, ye min’-—man, it was a 
quaietness in ’tsel’, and cam’ throw’ the din like a bonny silence 
—like a lull ? the win’ o’ this warl’! It wasna a din at a’, but 
a gran’ repose like. But this noise tumultuous o’ human strife, 
this din’ o’ iron shune an’ iron wheels, this whurr and whuzz o’ 
buyin’ an’ sellin’ an’ gettin’ gain—it disna help a body to their 


prayers.” 


“Eh, na, my lord! Jist think o’ the preevilege—I never saw 


nor thoucht o’ ’t afore—o’ haein’ ’t 7? yer pooer, ony nicht ’at 


TWO CONVERSATIONS. 45 


ye’re no efter the fish, to stap oot at ‘yer ain door, an’ be in the 
mids o the temple! — Be ’t licht or dark, be ’t foul or fair, the 
sea sleepin’ or ragin’, ye ha’e aye room, an’ naething atween ye 
an’ the throne o’ the Almichty, to the whilk yer prayers ken the 
gait, as weel ’s the herrin’ to the shores o’ Scotlan’: ye ha’e but 
to lat them flee, an’ they gang straucht there. “But here ye ha’e 
aye to luik sae gleg efter yer boady, ’at, as ye say, my lord, yer 
sowl’s like to come aff the waur, gien it binna clean forgotten.” 

“J doobt there’s something no richt aboot it, Peter,” returned 
Malcolm. 

“There maun be a heap no richt aboot it,” answered Peter. 

“Ay, but ’m no meanin’ ’t jist as ye du. I had the haill 
thing throu’ my heid last nicht, an’ I canna but think there’s 
something wrang wi a man gien he canna hear the word o’ God 
as weel 7 the mids o’ a multitude no man can number, a’ made 
ilk ane 7 the image o’ the Father—as weel, I say, asi’ the hert 
© win’ an’ watter an’ the lift an’ the starns an’ a’. Ye canna say 
’at thae things are a’ made?’ the image o’ God, in the same w’y, 
at least, ’at ye can say ’t o’ the body an’ face o’ a man, for 
throu’ them the God o’ the whole earth revealed Himsel’ in 
Christ.” 

“ Ow, weel, I wad alloo what ye say, gien they war a’ to be con- 
sidered Christi-ans.” 

“Ow, I grant we canna weel du that 7’ the full sense, but I 
doobt, gien they bena a’ Christi-ans ’at ca’s themsel’s that, there’s 
a heap mair Christi-anity nor get’s the credit o’ its ain name. I 
min’ weel hoo Maister Graham said to me ance ’at hoo there was 
something o’ Him ’at made him luikin’ oot o’ the een o’ ilka man 
’at he had made ; an’ what wad ye ca’ that but a scart or a straik 
© Christi-anity.” 

cavers, + kenna ; but ony gait I canna think it can be again’ 
the trowth o’ the gospel to wuss yersel’ mair alane wi’ yer God 
nor ye ever can be in sic an awfu’ Babylon o a place as this,” 

“Na, na, Peter; I’m no sayin’ that. I ken weel we're to gang 
intill the closet, and shut to the door. I’m only afeart ’at there 
be something wrang in mysel’ ’at tak’s t’ ill to be amon’ sae 
mony neibors. I’m thinkin’ ’at, gien a’ was richt ’ithin me, gien 
I lo’ed my neibor as the Lord wad hae them ’at lo’ed Him lo’e 
ilk ane his brither, I micht be better able to pray amang them— 
ay, 1 the verra face o’ the bargainin’ an’ leein’ a’ aboot me.” 

«“ An’ min’ ye,” said Peter, pursuing the train of his own 
thoughts, and heedless of Malcolm’s, “’at oor Lord himsel’ bude 
whiles to win awa’, even frae his dissiples, to be him-lane wi the 
Father 0’ ’im.” 


t oe Ss 
at > 


We 
eo 


16 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


** Ay, yee richt there, Peter,” answered Malcolm, “but there’s 


ae pint in ’t ye maunna forget—and that is ’at it was never i’ the 


day-time—sae far’s I min’—at he did sae. The lee-lang day he 
was among ’s fowk—workin’ his michty wark. Whan the nicht 
cam’, in which no man could wark, he gaed hame till ’s Father, 
ast war. Eh me! but it’s weel to ha’e a man like the schuil- 
maister to put trowth intill ye. I kenna what comes o’ them ’at 
ha’e drucken maisters, or sic as cares for naething but coontin’ 
an’ Laitin, an’ the likes o’ that!” 


CHAPTER XIV. 
FLORIMEL. 


THAT night Florimel had her thoughts as well as Malcolm. 
Already life was not what it had been to her, and the feeling of a 
difference is often what sets one a thinking first. While her 
father lived, and the sureness of his love over-arched her con- 


_ sciousness with a heaven of safety, the physical harmony of her 


nature had supplied her with a more than sufficient sense of well- 
being. Since his death, too, there had been times when she even 
fancied an enlargement of life in the sense of freedom and power 
which came with the knowledge of being a great lady, possessed 
of the rare privilege of an ancient title and an inheritance which 
seemed to her a yet greater wealth than it was. But she had 
soon found that, as to freedom, she had less of that than before 
—less of the feeling of it within her: not much freedom of any 
sort is to be had without fighting for it, and she had yet to dis- 
cover that the only freedom worth the name—that of heart, and 
soul, and mind—is not to be gained except through the hardest 


of battles. | She was very lonely, too. Lady Bellair had never 


assumed with her any authority, and had always been kind even 
to petting, but there was nothing about her to make a home for 


_-the girl’s heart. She felt in her no superiority, and for a spiritual 


home that is essential. As she learned to know her better, this 
sense of loneliness went on deepening, for she felt more and 
more that her guardian was not one in whom she could place 
genuine confidence, while yet her power over her was greater 
than she knew. ‘The innocent nature of the girl had begun to 
recoil from what she saw in the woman of the world, and yet she 


FLORIMEL. 47 


had in herself worldliness enough to render her fully susceptible 
of her influences. 

Notwithstanding her fine health and natural spirits, Florimel 
had begun to know what it is to wake suddenly of a morning be- 
tween three and four, and lie for a long weary time, sleepless. In 
youth bodily fatigue ensures falling asleep, but as soon as the 
body is tolerably rested, if there be unrest in the mind, that 
wakes it, and consciousness returns in the shape of a dull mis- 
giving like the far echo of the approaching trump of the arch- 
angel. Indeed, those hours are as a vestibule to the great hall 
of judgment, and to such as, without rendering it absolute 
obedience, yet care to keep on some sort of terms with their con- 
science, is a time of anything but comfort. Nor does the court 
in those hours sitting, concern itself only with heavy questions of 
right or wrong, but whoever loves and cares himself for his appear- 
ance before the eyes of men, finds himself accused of paltry follies, 
stupidities, and indiscretions, and punished with paltry mortifica- 
tions, chagrins, and anxieties. From such arraignment no man is 
free but him who walks in the perfect law of liberty—that is, the 
will of the Perfect—which alone is peace. 

On the morning after she had thus taken Malcolm again into 
her service, Florimel had one of these experiences—a foretaste 
of the Valley of the Shadow: she awoke in the hour when 
judgment sits upon the hearts of men. Or is it not rather the 
hour for which a legion of gracious spirits are on the 
watch—when, fresh raised from the death of sleep, cleansed a 
little from the past and its evils by the gift of God, the heart and 
brain are most capable of their influences ?—the hour when, be- 
sides, there is no refuge of external things wherein the man may 
shelter himself from the truths they would so gladly send con- 
quering into the citadel of his nature,—no world of the senses to 
rampart the soul from thought, when the eye and the ear are as 
if they were not, and the soul lies naked before the ‘infinite of 
reality. This live hour of the morning is the most real hour of 
the day, the hour of the motions of a prisoned and persecuted 
_ life, of its effort to break through and breathe. A good man 
then finds his refuge in the heart of the Purifying Fire; the bad 


man curses the swarms of Beelzebub that settle upon every sore 


spot in his conscious being. 

But it was not the general sense of unfitness in the conditions 
of her life, neither was it dissatisfaction with Lady Bellair, or the 
_want of the pressure of authority upon her unstable being ; it was 
not the sense of loneliness and unshelteredness in the sterile 
waste of fashionable life, neither was it weariness with the same 


“48 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


and its shows, or all these things together, that could have waked 
the youth of Florimel and kept it awake at this hour of the night 
—for night that hour is, however near the morning. 

Some few weeks agone, she had accompanied to the study of 


_acertain painter, a friend who was then sitting to him for her 
_ portrait. ‘The moment she entered, the appearance of the man 
_ and his surroundings laid hold of her imagination Although on 

the very verge of popularity, he was young—not more than five- 


and-twenty. His face, far from what is called handsome, had a 
certain almost grandeur in it, owed mainly to the dominant fore- 


head, and the regnant life in the eyes. To this the rest of the 


countenance. was submissive. ‘The mouth was sweet yet strong, 
seeming to derive its strength from the will that towered above 
and overhung it, throned on the crags of those eyebrows. The 
nose was rather short, not unpleasantly so, and had mass enough. 
In figure he was scarcely above the usual height, but well 
formed. ‘To a first glance even, the careless yet graceful freedom 
of his movements was remarkable, while his address was manly, 
and altogether devoid of selfrecommendation. Confident modesty 
and unobtrusive ease distinguished his demeanour. His father, 
Arnold Lenorme, descended from an old Norman family, had 


given him the Christian name of Raoul, which, although out- 
landish, tolerably fitted the surname, notwithstanding the con- 


tiguous 7s, objectionable to the fastidious ear of their owner. 
The earlier and more important part of his education, the begin- 


“nings, namely, of everything he afterwards further followed, his 


mother herself gave him, partly because she was both poor and 
capable, and partly because she was more anxious than most 
mothers for his best welfare. The poverty they had crept through, 


- as those that strive after better things always will, one way or 


another, with immeasurable advantage, and before the time came 
when he must leave home, her influence had armed him in 
adamant—a service which alas! few mothers seem capable of 


rendering the knights whom they send out into the battle-field of 
the world. Most of them give their children the best they have; - 


but how shall a foolish woman ever be a wise mother? The 
result in his case was, that reverence for her as the type of 
womanhood, working along with a natural instinct for refinement, 
a keen feeling of the incompatibility with art of anything in itself 
low or unclean, and a healthful and successful activity of mind, 


had rendered him so far upright and honourable that he had 


never yet done that in one mood which in another he had looked 
back upon with loathing. As yet he had withstood the teimpta- 
tions belonging to his youth and his profession—in great measure 


FLORIMEL. ~ 49 
also the temptations belonging to success; he had not yet been 
tried with disappointment, or sorrow, or failure. 

As to the environment in which Florimel found him, it was to 
her a region of confused and broken colour and form—a kind of 
chaos out of which beauty was ever ready to start. Pictures 
stood on easels, leaned against chair-backs, glowed from the wall 
—each contributing to the atmosphere of solved rainbow that 
seemed to fill the space. Lenorme was seated—not at his easel, 
but at a grand piano, which stood away, half-hidden in a corner, 
as if it knew itself there on sufferance, with pictures all about the 
legs of it. For they had walked straight in without giving his 
servant time to announce them. A bar of a song, in a fine-tenor 
voice, broke as they opened the door; and the painter came to 
meet them from the farther end of the study. He shook hands 
with Florimel’s friend, and turned with a bow to her. At the 
first glance the eyes of both fell. Raised the same instant, they 
encountered each other point blank, and then the eloquent blood 
had its turn at betrayal. What the moment meant, Florimel did 
not understand; but it seemed as if Raoul and she had met 
somewhere long ago, were presumed not to know it, but could 
not help remembering it, and agreeing to recognise it as a fact. 
A strange pleasure filled her heart. While Mrs Barnardiston sat 
she flitted about the room like a butterfly, looking at one thing 
after another, and asking now the most ignorant, now the most 
penetrative question, disturbing not a little the work, but sweeten- 
ing the temper of the painter, as he went on with his study of the 
mask and helmet into which the Gorgon stare of the Unideal had 
petrified the face and head of his sitter. He found the situation 
trying nevertheless. It was as if Cupid’ had been set by Jupiter 
to take a portrait of Io in her stall, while evermore he heard his 
Psyche fluttering about among the peacocks in the yard. For 
the girl had bewitched him at first sight. He thought it was only . 
as an artist, though to be sure a certain throb, almost of pain, in 
the region of the heart, when first his eyes fell before hers, might 
have warned, and perhaps did in vain warn him otherwise. 
Sooner than usual he professed himself content with the sitting, 
and then proceeded to show the ladies some of his sketches and 
pictures. Florimel asked to see one standing as in disgrace with 
its front to the wall. He put it, half reluctantly, on an easel, and 
said it was meant for the unveiling of Isis, as presented in a 
mahrchen of Novalis, introduced in Die Lehrlinge zu Sats, in 
which the goddess of Nature reveals to the eager and anxious 
gaze of the beholder the person of his Rosenbliithchen, whom he 
had left behind him when he set out to visit the temple of the 

D 


ko) THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


rw See” we eee 2 el ree Shr Re ey A MME Ce Pd SO aS ie ree Me, gl Mee Che rh 
Ran, iA oan Mire Mat ON bal aay Ah A TA Sac atel nAD a ty enc mee 
iy wore; { Pa PBN MIS MAME eae Na are icue tg ae Atl 
al . “2 


divinity. But on the great pedestal where should have sat the 


_ goddess there was no gracious form visible. That part of the 
picture was a blank. ‘The youth stood below, gazing enraptured 


with parted lips and outstretched arms, as if he had already begun 
to suspect what had begun to dawn through the slowly thinning 
veil—but to the eye of the beholder he gazed as yet only on 
vacancy, and the picture had not reached an attempt at self-ex- 
planation. Florimel asked why he had left it so long unfinished, 


_for the dust was thick on the back of the canvas. 


“‘ Because I have never seen the face or figure,” the painter 
answered, “either in eye of mind or of body, that claimed the 
position.” 

As he spoke, his eyes seemed to Florimel to lighten strangely, 
and as if by common consent they turned away, and looked at 
something else. Presently Mrs Barnardiston, who cared more 
for sound than form or colour, because she could herself sing a 
little, began to glance over some music on the piano, curious to 
find what the young man had been singing, whereupon Lenorme 
said to Florimel hurriedly, and almost in a whisper, with a sort 


of hesitating assurance, 


“Tf you would give me a sitting or two—I know I am pre- 


sumptuous, but if you would—I—I should send the picture to 


the Academy in a week.” 
“T will,” replied Florimel, flushing like a wild poppy, and as 
she said it, she looked up in his face and smiled. 


“Tt would have been selfish,” she said to herself as they drove 


away, ‘‘to refuse him.” 

This first interview, and all the interviews that had followed, 
now passed through her mind as she lay awake in the darkness 
preceding the dawn, and she reviewed them not without self 
reproach. But for some of my readers it will be hard to believe 
that one of the feelings that now tormented the girl was a sense 
of lowered dignity because of the relation in which she stood to 
the painter—seeing there was little or no ground for moral com- 
punction, and the feeling had its root merely in the fact that he 
was a painter fellow, and she a marchioness. Her rank had 


already grown to seem to her so identified with herself that she 
_ was hardly any longer capable of the analysis that should show it 
distinct from her being. As to any duty arising from her posi- 


_ tion, she had never heard the word used except as representing 


something owing to, not owed by rank. Social standing in the 


nat Sm 


eyes of the super-excellent few of fashion was the Satan of un-~ f os 

righteousness worshipped around her. And the precepts of this 
worship fell upon soil prepared for it. For with all the simplicity 

ae 


tas aes 
pa y 


BPP at 
oe oe 


> epee te) RS eee er ee Le ‘ . are ry Pa Fae ee eh ey > ees OOF +S, of ye AL iOb heel a } > enlia| 
Sa fiat ea ae ei eo Ny Pgh pe eae ei dye neem 3 


ia ee Pores | RL ORIMETL. 51 


of her nature, there was in it an inborn sense of rank, of elevation 
in the order of the universe above most others of the children of 
men—of greater intrinsic worth therefore in herself. How could 
it be otherwise with the offspring of generations of pride and 
falsely conscious superiority. Hence, as things were going now 
with the mere human part of her, some commotion, if not earth- 
quake indeed, was imminent. Nay the commotion had already 
begun, as manifest in her sleeplessness and the thoughts that 
occupied it. 

Rightly to understand the sense of shame and degradation she 
had not unfrequently felt of late, we must remember that in the 
circle in which she moved she heard professions, arts, and trades 
alluded to with the same unuttered, but the more strongly implied 
contempt—a contempt indeed regarded as so much a matter of 
course, so thoroughly understood, so reasonable in its nature, so 
absolute in its degree, that to utter it would have been bad taste 
from very superfluity. Yet she never entered the painter’s study 
but with trembling heart, uncertain foot, and fluttering breath, as 
of one stepping within the gates of an enchanted paradise, whose 
joy is too much for the material weight of humanity to ballast | 
even to the steadying of the bodily step, and the outward calm of 
the bodily carriage. How far things had gone between them we 
shall be able to judge by-and-by ; it will be enough at present to 
add that it was this relation and the inward strife arising from it 
that had not only prematurely, but over-rapidly ripened the girl 
into the woman. 7 

This my disclosure of her condition, however, has not yet un- 
covered the sorest spot upon which the flies of Beelzebub settled 
in the darkness of this torture-hour of the human clock. Although 
still the same lively, self-operative. nature she had been in other 
circumstances, she was so far from being insensible or indifferent to 
the opinions of others, that she had not even strength enough to 
keep a foreign will off the beam of her choice: the will of another, 
in no way directly brought to bear on hers, would yet weigh to. 
her encouragement where her wish was doubtful, or to her restraint | 
where impulse was strong; it would even move her towards a line — 
of conduct whose anticipated results were distasteful to her. Ever — 
and anon her pride would rise armed against the consciousness 
of slavery, but its armour was too weak either for defence or for 
deliverance. She knew that the heart of Lady Bellair, what of 
heart she had, was set upon her marriage with her nephew, Lord 
Liftore. Now she recoiled from the idea of marriage, and dis- 
missed it into a future of indefinite removal ; she had no special | 
desire to piease Lady Bellair from the point of gratitude, tor she - _ 


neta)» 
ae)? 
ees 
‘s 4 
a 
icf 
ne 


52 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE, ~~ 


- 


was perfectly aware that her relation to herself was far from being 
without advantage to that lady’s position as well as means: a 
whisper or two that had reached her had been enough to enlighten 
her in that direction; neither could she persuade herself that 


Lord Liftore was at all the sort of mza she could become proud 
of as a husband; and yet she felt destined to be his wife. On 
- the other hand she had no dislike to him: he was handsome, 


well-informed, capable—a gentleman, she thought, of good regard 
in the circles in which they moved, and one who would not in 
any manner disgrace her, although to be sure he was her inferior 
in rank, and she would rather have married a duke. At the same 
time, to confess all the truth, she was by no means indifferent to 


the advantages of having for a husband a man with money enough 


to restore the somewhat tarnished prestige of her own family to 
its pristine briliancy. She had never said a word to encourage 


_ the scheming of Lady Bellair; neither, on the other hand, had 
__ she ever said a word to discourage her hopes, or give her ground 


for doubting the acceptableness of her cherished project. Hence 
Lady Bellair had naturally come to regard the two as almost 
affanced. But Florimel’s aversion to the idea of marriage, and: 
her horror at the thought of the slightest whisper of what was 


between her and Lenorme, increased together. 


There were times too when she asked herself in anxious 


_ discomfort whether she was not possibly a transgressor against a 
- deeper and simpler law than that of station—whether she was 
altogether maidenly in the encouragement she had given and was 
giving to the painter. It must not be imagined that she had once 


visited him without a companion, though that companion was 
indeed sometimes only her maid—her real object being covered 
by the true pretext of sitting for her portrait, which Lady Bellair 
pleased herself with imagining would one day be presented to 
Lord Liftore. But she could not, upon such occasions of 


~~ morning judgment as this, fail to doubt sorely whether the visits 
~ she paid him, and the liberties which upon fortunate occasions 


she allowed him, were such as could be justified on any ground 
other than that she was prepared to give him all. All, however, 
she was by no means prepared to give him: that involved 


'. consequences far too terrible to be contemplated even as 
- possibilities. 


_ With such causes for disquiet in her young heart and brain, it 
is not then wonderful that she should sometimes be unable to 
slip across this troubled region of the night in the boat of her 


dreams, but should suffer shipwreck on the waking coast,. and 


have to encounter the staring and questioning eyes of more than 


PORTLOSSTE. 53 
one importunate truth. Nor is it any wonder either that, to such 
an inexperienced and so troubled a heart, the assurance of one 
absolutely devoted friend should come with healing and hope— 
even if that friend should be but a groom, altogether incapable 
of understanding her position, or perceiving the phantoms that 
crowded about her, threatening to embody themselves in her 
ruin. A clumsy, ridiculous fellow, she said to herself, from whose 
person she could never dissociate the smell of fish, who talked a 
horrible jargon called Scotch, and who could not be prevented 
from uttering unpalatable truths at uncomfortable moments ; yet 
whose thoughts were as chivalrous as his person was powerful, 
and whose countenance was pleasing if only for the triumph of 
honesty therein : she actually felt stronger and safer to know he 
was near, and at her beck and call. 


CHAPTER XV. 
PORTLOSSIE, 


Mr CRATHIE, seeing nothing more of Malcolm, believed himself 
at last well rid of him; but it was days before his wrath ceased 
to flame, and then it went on smouldering. Nothing occurred to 
take him to the Seaton, and no business brought any of the fisher 
people to his office during that time. Hence he heard nothing 
of the mode of Malcolm’s departure. When at length in the 
course of ordinary undulatory propagation the news reached him 
that Malcolm had taken the yacht with him, he was enraged 
beyond measure at the impudence of the theft, as he called it, 
and ran to the Seaton ina fury. He had this consolation, how- ° 
ever: the man who had accused him of dishonesty and hypocrisy 
had proved but a thief. 

He found the boat-house indeed empty, and went storming 
from cottage to cottage, but came upon no one from whom his 
anger could draw nourishment, not to say gain satisfaction. At 
length he reached the Partan’s, found him at home, and 
commenced, at hap-hazard, abusing him as an aider and abettor 
of the felony. But Meg Partan was at home also, as Mr Crathie 
soon learned to his cost; for, hearing him usurp her unique ~ 
privilege of falling out upon her husband, she stole from the ben- 
end, and having stood for a moment silent in the doorway, 
listening for comprehenson, rushed out in a storm of tongue. 


dl 


/ Pee Sy. Pr ae za ¢ rape ; br a Ser iene ee: ah Ga i: age soF Bags te etek g eal ei Re eae Oe. 
; a) = - 
: 3 ’ < 
54 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE. 


‘An’ what for sudna my man,” she cried, at full height of her 
screeching voice, “lay tu his han’ wi’ ither honest fowk to du for 
the boat what him ’at was weel kent for the captain o’ her, sin’ ever 
she was a boat, wantit dune? Wad ye tak the comman’ o’ the 
boat, sir, as weel’s o’ a’ thing ither aboot the place?” 

“‘Hold your tongue, woman,” said the factor; “I have 
nothing to say to you.” 

“Aigh, sirs! but it’s a peety ye wasna foreordeent to be 
markis yersel’! It maun be a sair vex to ye ’at ye’re naething 
but the factor.” 

“Tf ye don’t mind your manners, Mistress Fin’lay,” said Mr 


-Crathie in glowing indignation, “perhaps you'll find that the 


factor is as much as the marquis, when he’s all there is for one.” 

“Lord safe ’s! hear till ’im!” cried the Partaness. ‘ Wha 
wad hae thoucht it o’ im? ‘There’s fowk ‘at it sets weel to tak 
upo’ them! His father, honest man, wad ne’er hae spoken like 
that to Meg Partan; but syne he zwas an honest man, though he 
was but the heid-shepherd upo’ the estate. Man, I micht hae 
been yer mither—gien I had been auld eneuch for ’s first wife, for 
he wad fain hae had me for ’s second.” 


“T’ve a great mind to take out a warrant against you, John — 


Fin’lay, otherwise called the Partan, as airt an’ pairt in the steal- 


ing of the Marchioness of Lossie’s pleasure-boat,” said the factor. — 


“And for you, Mistress Finlay, I would have you please to 
remember that this house, as far at least as you are concerned, is 
mine, although I am but the factor, and not the marquis ; and if 
you don't keep that unruly tongue of yours a little quieter in your 
head, I’ll set you in the street the next quarter day but one, as 
sure’s ever you gutted a herring, and then you may bid good-bye 


to Portlossie, for there’s not a house, as you very well know, in 
all the Seaton, that belongs to another than her ladyship.” 


‘Deed, Mr Crathie,” returned Meg Partan, a little sobered by 
the threat, ‘‘ ye wad hae mair sense nor rin the risk o’ an uprisin’ 
o’ the fisher-fowk. ‘They wad ill stan’ to see my auld man an’ 
me misused, no to say ’at her leddyship hersel’ wad see ony o’ her 
ain fowk turned oot o’ hoose an’ haudin’ for naething ava.” 

“Her ladyship wad gi’e hersel’ sma’ concern gien the haill 

bilin’ o’ ye war whaur ye cam frae,” returned the factor. “ An’ 
for the toon here, the fowk kens the guid o’ a quaiet caus’ay ower 
weel to lament the loss 0’ ye.” 

“The deil’s ’ the man!” cried the Partaness in high scorn, 
“He wad threip upo’ me ’at I was ane o’ thae lang-tongued 
limmers ’at maks themsel’s h’ard frae ae toon’s en’ to the tither! 
But Is’ gar him priv ’s words yet !” 


Cae 


ePORTLOSSIE, rae 


“Ye see, sir,” interposed the mild Partan, anxious to shove 
extremities aside, “we didna ken ’at there was onything intill’t by 
ord’nar. Gien we had but kent ’at he was oot o’ your guid 
graces, : 

“aud yer tongue afore ye lee, man,” interrupted his wife. 
“Ye ken weel eneuch ye wad du what Ma’colm MacPhail wad 
hae ye du, for ony factor in braid Scotlan’.” 

“ You must have known,” said the factor to the Partan, 
apparently heedless of this last outbreak of the generous evil 
temper, and laying a cunning trap for the information he sorely 
wanted, but had as yet failed in procuring—‘“ else why was 
it that not a soul went with him? He could ill manage the boat 
alone.” 

“What put sic buff an’ styte i’ yer heid, sir?” rejoined Meg, 
defiant of the hints her husband sought to convey to her. 


“There's mony ane wad hae been ready to gang, only wha sud ~ 


gang but him ’at gaed wi’ him an’ ’s lordship frae the first?” 

_“ And who was that?” asked Mr Crathie. 

“Ow! wha but Blue Peter?” answered Meg. 

“Fim !” said the factor, in a tone that for almost the first time 
in her life made the woman regret that she had ‘spoken, and 
therewith he rose and left the cottage. 


* fh, mither!” cried Lizzy, in her turn appearing from the 


ben-end, with her child in her arms, “ye hae wroucht ruin 7’ the 
earth! He'll hae Peter an’ Annie an’ a’ oot o’ hoose an’ ha, 
come midsummer.” 

“YT daur him till’t!” cried her mother, in the impotence and 
self-despite of a mortifying blunder; “ T’ll raise the toon upon ’im.” 

“What wad that du, mither: >” returned Lizzy, in distress 
about her friends. “It wad but mak’ ill waur. 

** An’ wha are ye to oppen yer mow’ sae wide to yer mither? ” 
burst forth Meg Partan, glad of an object upon which the chagrin 
that consumed her mightissue in flame. ‘ Yeha’ena luikit to yer 


ain gait sae weel ’at ye can thriep to set richt them ’at broucht ” 


ye forth.— Wha are ye, I say ?” she repeated in rage. 

* Ane ’at folly’s made wiser, maybe, mither,” answered Lizzie 
sadly, and proceeded to take her shawl from behind the door: 
she would go to her friends at Scaurnose, and communicate 
her fears for their warning. But her words smote the mother 
within the mother, and she turned and looked at her daughter 
with more of the woman and less of the Partan in her rugged 
countenance than had been visible there since the first week of 
her married life. She had been greatly injured by the gaining of 
too easy a conquest and resultant supremacy over her husband, 


PAS a eR oe RO Ge =” Son edae 
jatrass ie oes Ae < : 


Pe POA gm 
* ae nS 
Fea Beract eoe me ee u 


Ko THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


whence she had ever after revelled in a rule too absolute for good 
to any concerned. As she was turning away, her daughter 


caught a glimpse of her softened eyes, and went out of the house _.__ 


with more comfort in her heart than she had felt ever since fi rsh eee 


she had given her conscience cause to speak daggers to ‘her! 40 9 


The factor kept raging to himself all the way home, flung 


himself trembling on his horse, vouchsafing his anxious wife 
scarce any answer to her anxious enquiries, and gallopedto Duff 
Harbour to Mr Soutar. 

I will not occupy my tale with their interview. Suffice it to 
say that the lawyer succeeded at last in convincing the de- 
mented factor that it would be but prudent to delay measures for 
the recovery of the yacht and the arrest and punishment of its 
abductors, until he knew what Lady Lossie would say to the 
affair. She had always had a liking for the lad, Mr Soutar said, 
and he would not be in the least surprised to hear that Malcolm 
had gone straight to her ladyship and put himself under her 
protection. No doubt by this time the cutter was at its owner’s 
disposal : it would be just like the fellow! He always went the 


nearest road anywhere. And to prosecute him for a thief would : 
in any case but bring down the ridicule of the whole coast upon ~ 


the factor, and breed him endless annoyance in the getting in 


of his rents—especially among the fishermen. The result was | 


that Mr Crathie went home—not indeed a humbler or wiser man 
than he had gone, but a thwarted man, and therefore the more 
dangerous in the channels left open to the outrush of his angry 
power. 

When Lizzy reached Scaurnose, her account of the factor’s 
behaviour, to her surprise, did not take much effect upon Mrs 
Mair: a queer little smile broke over her countenance, and 
vanished. An enforced gravity succeeded, however, and she- 


began to take counsel with Lizzy as to what they could do, or® 


where they could go, should the worst come to the worst ,and 
the doors, not only of her own house, but of Scaurnose and 
Portlossie as well, be shut against them. But through it all 
reigned a calm regard and fearlessness of the future which, to 
Lizzy’s roused and apprehensive imagination, was strangely in- 
explicable. Annie Mair seemed possessed of some hidden and 
upholding assurance that raised her above the fear of man or 
what he could do to her. The girl concluded it must be the 
knowledge of God, and prayed more earnestly that night than she 


had prayed since the night on which Malcolm had talked to her so — _ 


earnestly before he left. I must add this much, that she was 
not altogether astray : God was in Malcolm, giving new hope to 
his fisher-folk. 


> 


: Ss ST. ¥AMES THE APOSTLE. 


| aes tas XVL 


ST JAMES THE APOSTLE, 


Wun Malcolm left his sister, he had a dim sense of having 


lapsed into Scotch, and set about buttressing and strengthening 


his determination to get rid of all unconscious and unintended. 
use of the northern dialect, not only that, in his attendance upon 


Florimel, he might be neither offensive nor ridiculous, but that, 
when the time should come in which he must appear what he 


was, it might be less of an annoyance to her to yield the: : 


marquisate to one who could speak like a gentleman and one of 
the family. But not the less did he love the tongue he had 
spoken from his childhood, and in which were on record so many 
precious ballads and songs, old and new; and he resolved that, 
when he came out as a marquis, he would at Lossie House in- 
demnify himself for the constraint of London. He would not 


have an English servant there except Mrs Courthope: he would. 
not have the natural country speech corrupted with cockneyisms, 


and his people taught to speak like Wallis! To his old friends 
the fishers and Pir families, he would never utter a sentence 
but in the old tongue, Harnted with all the memories of relations 


that were never to be obliterated or forgotten, its very tones. 


reminding him and them of hardships together endur ed, pleasures 
shared, and help willingly given. At night, notwithstanding, he 
found that i in talking with Blue Pcter, he ‘had for gotten all about 


his resolve, and it vexed him with himself not a little. -He now 
saw that if he could but get into the way of speaking English to 
_ fam, the victory would be gained, for with no one else would he 
find any difficulty then. | 


The next morning he went down to the stairs at London 


_ Bridge, and took a boat to the yacht. He had to cross several 


vessels to reach it. When at length he looked down from the 
last of them on the deck of the little cutter, he saw Blue Peter 


sitting on the coamings of the hatch, his feet hanging down 


within. He was lost in the book he was reading. Curious to 
see, without disturbing him, what it was that so absorbed him, 
Malcolm dropped quietly on the tiller, and thence on the deck, 


and approaching softly peeped over his shoulder. He was - 


reading the epistle of James the apostle. Malcolm fell a-thinking. 
From Peter’s thumbed bible his eyes went wandering through 
the thicket of masts, in which moved so many busy seafarers, 
and then turned to the docks and wharfs and huge warehouses 


eS 
ie tp. ne 


2 ee THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


lining the shores ; and while they scanned the marvellous vision, 


the thoughts that arose and passed through his brain were like 
these: ‘What are ye duin’ here, Jeames the Just? Ye was 
‘naething but a fisher-body upon a sma’ watter i’ the hert o’ the 


hills, ’at wasna even saut; an’ what can the thochts that gaed 
throu’ your fish-catchin’ brain hae to du wi’ sic a sicht ’s this? 
I won’er gien at this moment there be anither man in a’ Lon’on 
sittin’ readin’ that epis-tle o’ yours but Blue Peter here? He 
thinks there’s naething 0’ mair importance, ’cep’ maybe some 
ither pairts 0’ the same buik ; but syne he’s but a puir fisher- 
body himsel’, an’ what kens he o’ the wisdom an’ riches an’ pooer 
o’ this michty queen o’ the nations, thron’t aboot him ?—Ist 


possible the auld body kent something ’at was jist as necessar’ to | 


ilkka man, the busiest in this croodit mairt, to ken an’ gang by, 
as it was to Jeames an’ the lave o’ the michty apostles themsel’s ? 
For me, I dinna doobt it—but hoo it sud ever be onything but 
an auld-warld story to the new warld o’ Lon’on, I think it wad 
bleck Maister Graham himsel’ til imaigine.” 

Before this, Blue Peter had become aware that some one was 
near him, but, intent on the words of his brother fisher of the 
old time, had half-unconsciously put off looking up to see who 
was behind him. When now he did so, and saw Malcolm, he 
rose and touched his bonnet. . 

“Tt was jist ’ my heid, my lord,” he said, without any preamble, 
“sic a kin’ o’ a h’avenly Jacobin as this same Jacobus was! 
He’s sic a leveller as was feow afore ’im, I doobt, wi’ his gowd- 
ringt man, an’ his cloot-cled brither! He pat me in twa min’s, 
my lord, whan I got up, whether I wad touch my bonnet to yer 
lordship or no.” 

Malcolm laughed with hearty appreciation. 

“When Iam king of Lossie,” he said, “be it known to all 
whom it may concern, that it is and shall be the right of Blue 
Peter, and all his descendants, to the end of time, to stand with 


bonneted heads in the presence of Lord or—no, not Lady, Peter — 


—of the house of Lossie.” 


“ Ay, but ye see, Ma’colm,” said Peter, forgetting his address, — 


and his eye twinkling in the humour of the moment, “it’s no 
by your leave, or ony man’s leave; it’s the richt o’ the thing; 
an’ that I maun think aboot, an’ see whether I be at leeberty to 
ca’ ye my lord or no.” 

_ ““Meantime, don’t do it,” said Malcolm, “least you should 
have to change afterwards. You might find it difficult.” 


“Ye’re cheengt a’ready,” said Blue Peter, looking up at him 


Sharply. “TI ne’er h’ard ye speyk like that afore.” 


ae 
Le ea 


A Re ear PN il ma ct ON eg he Pa Ut a ok bo bt aE 
" Sette oy sat te is eee. Pes by 


A DIFFERENCE. ToS 


“Make nothing of it,” returned Malcolm. “Iam only airing my 


-_ Englishon you. I have made up my mind to learn to speak in Lon- 


don as London people do, and so, even to you, in the meantime 
only, I am going to speak as good English as I can.—It’s nothing 
between you and me, Peter and you must not mind it,” he 
added, seeing a slight cloud come over the fisherman’s face. 

Blue Peter turned away with a sigh. The sounds of English 
speech from the lips of Malcolm addressed to himself, seemed 
vaguely to indicate the opening of a gulf between them, destined 
ere long to widen to the whole social - width between a fisherman 
and a marquis, swallowing up in it not only all old memories, 
but all later friendship and confidence. A shadow of bitterness 
crossed the poor fellow’s mind, and in it the seed of distrust 
began to strike root, and all because a newer had been substi- 
tuted for an older form of the same speech and language. Truly 
man’s heart is a delicate piece of work, and takes gentle handling 
or hurt. But that the pain was not all of i innocence is revealed 
in the strange fact, afterwards disclosed by the repentant Peter 
himself, that, in that same moment, what had just passed his: 
mouth asa joke, put on an important, serious look, and appeared 
to involve a matter of doubtful duty : was it really right of one 


- man to say my lord to another? ‘Thus the fisherman, and not 


the marquis, was the first to sin against the other because of 
altered fortune. Distrust awoke pride in the heart of Blue 
Peter, and he erred in the lack of the charity that thinketh no 
evil. 

But the lack and the doubt made little show as yet. The two 
men rowed in the dinghy down the river to the Aberdeen whart 
to make arrangements about Kelpie, whose arrival Malcolm ex- 
pected the following Monday, then dined together, and ace that 
had a long row up the river, 


CHAPTER XVII. 
A DIFFERENCE. 


NOTWITHSTANDING his keenness of judgment and sobriety in 
action, Malcolm had yet a certain love for effect, a delight, that 
is, in the show of concentrated results, which, as I believe I have 
elsewhere remarked, belongs especially to the Celtic nature, and 


60 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


is one form in which the poetic element vaguely embodies itself. 
Hence arose the temptation to try on Blue Peter the effect of a 
uiterally theatrical surprise. He knew well the prejudices of the 
greater portion of the Scots people against every possible form of 
artistic, most of all, dramatic representation. He knew, there- 
fore, also, that Peter would never be persuaded to go with him 
to the theatre: to invite him would be like asking him to call 
upon Beelzebub; but as this feeling was cherished in utter 
ignorance of its object, he judged he would be doing him no 
wrong if he made experiment how the thing itself would affect 
the heart and judgment of the unsophisticated fisherman. 
Finding that Zhe .Tempest was still the play represented, he 
contrived, as they walked together, so to direct their course that . 
they should be near Drury Lane towards the hour of commence- 
_ ment. He did not want to take him in much before the time: 
he would not give him scope for thought, doubt, suspicion, 
discovery. | 

When they came in front of the theatre, people were crowding 
in, and carriages setting down their occupants. Blue Peter gave 
a glance at the building. 

“This'll be ane o’ the Lon’on kirks, ’m thinkin’?” he said. 
‘It’s a muckie place; an’ there maun be a heap o’ guid fowk in 
Lon’on, for as ill’s it’s ca’d, to see sae mony, an’? their cair- 
ritches, comin’ to the kirk—on a Setterday nicht tu. It maun be — 
some kin’ 0’ a prayer-meetin’, I’m thinkin’.” 

Malcolm said nothing, but led the way to the pit entrance. 

“That’s no an ill w’y o’ getherin’ the baubees,” said Peter, 
seeing how the in-comers paid their money. “I hae h’ard o’ the 
plate bein’ robbit in a muckle toon afore noo.” 

When at length they were seated, and he had time to glance 
reverently around him, he was a little staggered at sight of the 
decorations ; and the thought crossed his mind of the pictures 
and statues he had heard of in catholic churches; but he remem- 
bered Westminster Abbey, its windows and monuments, and 
returned to his belief that he was, if in an episcopal, yet in a 
protestant church. But he could not help the thought that the 
galleries were a little too gaudily painted, while the high pews in 
them astonished him.  Peter’s nature, however, was one of. 
those calm, slow ones which, when occupied by an idea or a 

belief, are by no means ready to doubt its correctness, and are 
even ingenious in reducing all apparent contradictions to 
theoretic harmony with it—whence it came that to him all this 
was only part of the church furniture according to the taste 
and magnificence of London. He sat quite tranquil, therefore, 


5 A DIFFERENCE. oa 


until the curtain rose, revealing the ship’s company in all the 
confusion of the wildest of sea storms. 

Malcolm watched him narrowly, But Peter was first so taken 
by surprise, and then so carried away with the interest of what 
he saw, that thinking had ceased in him utterly, and imagination 
lay passive as a mirror to the representation. Nor did the 
sudden change from the first to the second scene rouse him, for 
before his thinking machinery could be set in motion, the delight 
of the new show had again caught him in its meshes. For to 
him, as it had been to Malcelm, it was the shore at Portlossie, 
while the cave that opened behind was the Bailie’s Barn, where 
his friends the fishers might at that moment, if it were a fine 
night, be holding one of their prayer meetings. 

The mood lasted all through the talk of Prospero and 
Miranda ; but when Ariel entered there came a snap, and the 
spell was broken. With a look in which doubt wrestled with 
horror, Blue Peter turned to Malcolm, and whispered with bated 
breath— 

“Tm jaloosin’—it canna be—it’s no a playhoose, this ?” 

Malcolm merely nodded, but from the riod Peter understood 
that 4e had had no discovery to make as to the character of the 
place they were in. 

“Eh!” he groaned, overcome with dismay. Then rising 
suddenly—‘“‘ Guid nicht to ye, my lord,” he said, with indigna- 
tion, and rudely forced his way from the crowded house. 

Malcolm followed in his wake, but said nothing till they were 
in the street. Then, forgetting utterly his resolves concerning 
English in the distress of having given his friend ground to com- 
plain of his conduct towards him, he laid his hand on Blue 
Peter's arm, and stopped him in the middle of the narrow street. 

““T but thoucht, Peter,” he said, “to get ye to see wi’ yer ain 
een, an’ hear wi’ yer ain ears, afore ye passed jeedgment ; but 
-ye're jist like the lave.” 

“An what for sudna I be jist like the lave?” returned 
Peter, fiercely. . 

“Cause it’s no fair to set doon a’ thing for wrang ’at ye ha’e 
been 1 the w’y o’ hearing abus’t by them ’at kens as little aboot 
them as yersel’, I cam here mysel’, ohn kent whaur I was 
gaein’, the ither nicht, for the first time 7 my life ; but I wasna 
fleyt like you, ’cause I kent frae the buik a’’at was comin’. I 
hae hard in a kirk in ae ten meenutes jist a sicht o’ what maun 
ha’e been sair displeasin’ to the he’rt o’ the maister 0’’s a’; but 
that nicht I saw nae ill and h’ard nae ill, but was weel peyed back 
upo’ t em ’at did it an’ said it afore the business was ower, an’ 


62 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


that’s mair nor ye’ll see i’ the streets o’ Portlossie ilka day. ‘The 
play-hoose is whaur ye gang to see what comes o’ things ’at ye 
canna follow oot in ordinar’ life.” | 

Whether Malcolm, after a year’s theatre-going, would have 
said precisely the same is hardly doubtful. He spoke of the 
ideal theatre to which Shakspere is true, and in regard to that 
he spoke rightly. 

“Ye decoy’t me intill the hoose o’ ineequity !” was Peter’s 
indignant reply; “an’ it’s no what ye ever ga’e me cause to 
expec’ o’ ye, sae ’at I micht ha’e ta’en tent 0’ ye.” 

“‘T thoucht nae ill o’ ’t,” returned Malcolm 

“Weel, Z div,” retorted Peter. 

“Then perhaps you are wrong,” said Malcolm, “for charity 
thinketh no evil. You wouldn’t stay to see the thing out.” 

“There ye are at yer English again! an’ misgugglin’ Scriptur’ 
wi ’t! an’ a’ this upo’ Setterday nicht—maist the Sawbath day! 
Weel, I ha’e aye h’ard ’at Lon’on was an awfu’ place, but I little 
thoucht the verra air o’ ’t wad sae sune turn an honest laad like 
Ma’colm MacPhail intill a scoffer. But maybe it’s the markis 0’ 
’im, an’ no the muckle toon ’at’s made the differ. Ony gait, ’m 
thinkin’ it'll be aboot time for me to be gauin’ hame.” 

Malcolm was vexed with himself, and both disappointed and 
troubled at the change which had come over his friend, and 
‘threatened to destroy the life-long relation between them; his 
feelings therefore held him silent. Peter concluded that the 
marguis was displeased, and it clenched his resolve to go. 

“What w’y am IJ to win hame, my lord?” he said, when they 
had walked some distance without word spoken. 

*‘ By the Aberdeen smack,” returned Malcolm. “She sails on 
Tuesday. I will see you on board. You must take young Davy 
with you, for I wouldn’t have him here after you are gone. There 
will be nothing for him to do.” 

“Ye’re unco ready to pairt wi ’s noo ’at ye ha’e nae mair use 
for ’s,” said Peter. 

“No sae ready as ye seem to pairt wi’ yer chairity,” said Mal- 
-colm, now angry too. 

“Ye see Annie ’ill be thinkin’ lang,” said Peter, softening a 
little. 

No more angry words passed between them, but neither did 
any thoroughly cordial ones, and they parted at the stairs in 
mutual, though, with such men, it could not be more than super- 
ficial estrangement. 


LORD LIFTORE. 63 


CHAPTER XVIII. 
LORD LIFTORE. 


THE chief cause of Malcolm’s anxiety had been, and perhaps still 
was, Lord Liftore. In his ignorance of Mr Lenorme there might 
lie equal cause with him, but he knew such evil of the other that 
his whole nature revolted against the thought of his marrying his 
sister. At Lossie he had made himself agreeable to her, and 
now, if not actually living in the same house, he was there at all 
hours of the day. 

- It took nothing from his anxiety to see that his lordship was 
greatly improved. Not only had the lanky youth passed into a 
well-formed man, but in countenance, whether as regarded ex- 
pression, complexion, or feature, he was not merely a handsomer 
but looked in every way a healthier and better man. Whether it 
was from some reviving sense of duty, or that, in his attachment 
to Florimel, he had begun to cherish a desire of being worthy of 
her, I cannot tell ; but he looked altogether more of a man than 
the time that had elapsed would have given ground to expect, 
even had he then seemed on the mend, and indeed promised to 
become a really fine-looking fellow. His features were far more 
regular if less zzformed than those of the painter, and his carriage 
prouder if less graceful and energetic. His admiration of and 
consequent attachment to Florimel had been growing ever since 
his visit to Lossie House the preceding summer, and if he had 
said nothing quite definite, it was only because his aunt repre- 
sented the impolicy of declaring himself just yet: she was too 
young. She judged thus, attributing her evident indifference to 
an incapacity as yet for falling in love. Hence, beyond paying 
her all sorts of attentions and what compliments he was capable 


® of constructing, Lord Liftore had not gone far towards making 


himself understood—at least, not until just before Malcolm’s 
arrival, when his behaviour had certainly grown warmer and more 
confidential. 

All the time she had been under his aunt’s care he had had 


abundant opportunity for recommending himself, and he had 


made use of the privilege. For one thing, credibly assured that 
he looked well in the saddle, he had constantly encouraged 
Florimel’s love of riding and desire to become a thorough horse- 
woman, and they had ridden a good deal together in the ~ 
neighbourhood of Edinburgh. ‘This practice they continued as 


ee . Se Re ht SS Tae 
THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. — 


oe nt " ae 
= es soe 


‘ much as possible after they came to London early in the spring ; % 
- but the weather of late had not been favourable, and Florimel 


_ had been very little out with him. : 
For a long time Lady Bellair had had her mind set on a match 
between the daughter of her old friend the Marquis of Lossie and 
her nephew, and it was with this in view that, when invited to 
Lossic House, she had begged leave to bring Lord Meikleham — 
with her. The young man was from the first sufficiently taken 
with the beautiful girl to satisfy his aunt, and would even then — 
have shown greater fervour in his attentions, had he not met 
Lizzy Findlay at the wedding of Joseph Mair’s sister, and found | 
her more than pleasing. I will not say that from the first he 
purposed wrong to her: he was too inexperienced in the ways of 
- -eyil for that ; but even when he saw plainly enough to what their 
mutual attraction was tending, he gave himself no trouble to resist 
it; and through the whole unhappy affair had not had one 
- smallest struggle with himself for the girl’s sake. To himself he. 


as 


Von 


Be) 
i he 


x 


ar 


¥ hy 
pay OS 
eee AE 
Rag Mag oe 


“ii 
re 


ay 


nt, 
pie 


=e 


~ 
was all in all as yet, and such was his opinion of his own precious’ ae 
_ being, that, had he thonght about it, he would have considered 
the honour of zs atten-ions far more than sufficient to make up 
to any girl in such a position for whatever mishap his acquaint. = 
ance might bring upon her. What were the grief and mortifica- Ae 
- tion of parents to put in the balance against his condescension? = 
_ what the shame and the humiliation of the girl herself compared 

with the honour of having been shone upon fora period, however —s_— 
_ brief, by his enamoured countenance? Must not even the sorrow. _ a 
attendant upon her loss be rendered more than endurable—be a 

radiantly consoled by the memory that she had held such a demi- es 

god in her arms? When he left her at last, with many promises, 

not one of which he ever had the intention of fulfilling, he did. _ ve 
_ purpose sending her a present. But at that time he was poor— — a 
_ dependent, indeed, for his pocket-money upon his aunt; and,up ie 


_ to this hour, he had never since his departure from Lossie House ~~ 
_ taken the least notice of her either by gift or letter. He had 5 i 
_ taken care also that it should not be in her power to write to him}. aes 
and now he did not even know that he was a father. Once or 
twice the possibility of such being the case occurred to him, and. 
he thought within himself that if he were, and it should come to 
be talked of, it might, in respect of his present hopes, be awkward 

and disagreeable; for, although such a predicament was nowise 
_ unusual, in this instance the circumstances were. More than one 
of his bachelor friends had a small family even, but then it was 
_ “in the regular way of an open and understood secret: the fox had at 

his nest in some pleasant nook, adroitly masked, where lay his — 


— . Pitter fee Fs a 5 aye a eT AMD ONE aE ris cae eG OT BE fete ol aie rrr 
, 5 Per ee a ere 2A a ste ee ar om . : SE cal 
ee re Page he aa ae oe Ds bs > ‘ i a Pe SR “ | ; < 


> “> — ee 


Be AORD LIFTORE 


vixen and her brood ; one day he would abandon them for ever, 
and, with such gathered store of experience, set up for a respect- 
able family man. <A few tears, a neat legal arrangement, and all 
would be as it had never been, only that the blood of the Mont- 
morencies or Cliffords would meander unclaimed in this or that 
obscure channel, beautifying the race, and rousing England to 
noble deeds! But in his case it would be unpleasant—a little— 
that every one of his future tenantry should know the relation in 
which he stood to a woman of the fisher-people. He did not fear 
any resentment— not that he would have cared a straw for it, on 
such trifling grounds, but people in their low condition never 
thought anything of such slips on the part of their women 
especially where a great man was concerned. What he did fear 
was that the immediate relations of the woman—that was how he 
spoke of Lizzy to himself—might presume upon the honour he 
had done them. Lizzy, however, was a good girl, and had pro- 
mised to keep the matter secret until she heard from him, what- 
ever might be the consequences ; and surely there was fascination 
enough in the holding of a secret with such as he to enable her 
to keep her promise. She must be perfectly aware, however 
appearances might be against him, that he was not one to 
fail in appreciation of her conduct, however easy and natural all 
that he required of her might be. He would requite her royally 
when he was Lord of Lossie. Meantime, although it was even 
now in his power to make her rich amends, he would prudently 
leave things as they were, and not run the risk that must lie in 
opening communications. 

And so the young earl held his head high, looked as innocent 
as may be desirable for a gentleman, had many a fair clean hand 
laid in his, and many a maiden waist yielded to his arm, while 
“the woman” flitted about half an alien amongst her own, with 
his child wound in her old shawl of Lossie tartan ; wandering not 
seldom in the gloaming when her little one slept, along the top 
of the dune, with the wind blowing keen upon her from the 
regions of eternal ice, sometimes the snow settling softly on her 
hair, sometimes the hailstones nestling in its meshes ; the skies 
growing blacker about her, and the sea stormier, while hope 
retreated so far into the heavenly regions, that hope and heaven 
both were lost to her view. ‘Thus, alas! the things in which he 

was superior to her, most of all that he was a gentleman, while 
she was but a peasant girl—the things whose witchery drew her 
to his will, he made the means of casting her down from the 
place of her excellency into the mire of shame and loss. The 
only love worthy of the name ever and always uplifts. 
ay 


a 


hw ee eee 
to ee 


> hs 
ae: 


aaa oe Se es Tn et 4 a, Cae mS ~ fe > Leen oN ee ee 2 Oe ae ew, Ti 
ee  * i fl “iq - - Ne iti aS es > ies SE) aS See FH ale mre i apy ‘ uM F tee! . 
: ee > 
~~ ak: 


+ é LTS Wey es te Re 85 ‘ 


66 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


Ot the people belonging to the upper town of Portlossie, which ~ 
raised itself high above the sea-town in other respects besides the 
topical, there were none who did not make poor Lizzy feel they 
were aware of her disgrace, and but one man who made her feel 
it by being kinder than before. ‘That man, strange to say, was 
the factor. With all his faults he had some chivalry, and he 
showed it to the fisher-girl. Nor did he alter his manner to her 


- because of the rudeness with which her mother: had taken Mal- 


colm’s part. 

It was a sore proof to Mr Crathie that his discharged servant 
was in favour with the marchioness when the order came froin 
Mr Soutar to send up Kelpie. She had written to himself when 
she wanted her own horse ; now she sent for this brute through 
her lawyer. It was plain that Malcolm had been speaking against 
him; and he was the more embittered therefore against his 
friends. 

Since his departure he had been twice on the point of poison- 
ing the mare. 

It was with difficulty he found two men to take her to 
Aberdeen. ‘There they had an arduous job to get her on board 
and secure her. But it had been done, and all the Monday 
night Malcolm was waiting her arrival at the wharf—alone, for 
after what had passed between them, he would not ask Peter to’ 
go with him, and besides he was no use with horses. At length, 
in the grey of a gurly dawn, the smack came alongside. They 
had had a rough passage, and the mare was considerably sub- 
dued by sickness, so that there was less difficulty in getting her 
ashore, and she paced for a little while in tolerable quietness. 
But with every step on dry land, the evil spirit in her awoke, and . 


soon Malcolm had to dismount and lead her. The morning 


was little advanced, and few vehicles were about, otherwise he 


— could hardly have got her home uninjured, notwithstanding the 


sugar with which he had filled’a pocket. Before he reached 
the mews he was very near wishing he had never seen her. 
But when he led her into the stable, he was a little encouraged 
as well as surprised to find that she had not forgotten Florimel’s 


-- horse. They had always been a little friendly, and now they 


greeted each other with an affectionate neigh ; after which, with 
the help of all she could devour, the demoness was quieter. 


cA MS ss 5, no AS el SO RS a 
Cae er aa ‘ etait ~ ‘ YA ea ee 
Bee oe ns CD A el 


KELPIE IN LONDON. 67 


CHAPTER XIX. 
KELPIE IN LONDON. 


BeroreE noon Lord Liftore came round to the mews: his riding 
horses were there. Malcolm was not at the moment in the 
stable. 

“What animal is that?” he asked of his own groom, catching 
sight of Kelpie in her loose box. 

“One just come up from Scotland for Lady Lossie, my lord,” 
answered the man. 

“ She looks a clipper! Lead her out, and let me see her.” 

*¢She’s not sound in the temper, my lord, the groom that 
brought her says. He told me on no account to go near her 
till she got used to the sight of me.” 

“Oh! you're afraid, are you?” said his lordship, whose 
breeding had not taught him courtesy to his inferiors. 

At the word the man walked into her box. As he did so he 
looked out for her hoofs, but his circumspection was in vain: in 
a moment she had wheeled, jammed him against the wall, and 
taken his shoulder in her teeth. He gave a yell of pain. His 
lordship caught up a stable-broom, and attacked the mare with 
it over the door, but it flew from his hand to the other end of 
the stable, and the partition began to go after it. But she still 
kept her hold of the man. Happily, however, Malcolm was not 
far off, and hearing the noise, rushed in. He was just in time 
to save the groom’s life. Clearing the stall-partition, and seizing 
the mare by the nose with a mighty grasp, he inserted a fore- 
finger behind her tusk, for she was one of the few mares tusked 
like a horse, and soon compelled her to open her mouth. ‘The 
groom staggered and would have fallen, so cruelly had she 
mauled him, but Malcolm’s voice roused him. 

“ For God’s sake gang oot, as lang’s there twa limbs 0’ ye 
stickin’ thegither.” 

The poor fellow just managed to open the door, and fell 
senseless on the stones. Lord Liftore called for help, and they 
carried him into the saddle-room, while one ran for the nearest 
surgeon. 

Meantime Malcolm was putting a muzzle on Kelpie, which he 
believed she understood as a punishment, and while he was 
thus occupied, his lordship came from the saddle-room and 
approached the box. 

“Who are you?” he said. “I think I have seen you before.” 


68 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE. 


“I was servant to the late Marquis of Lossie, my lord, and 
now I am groom to her ladyship.” 

“What a fury you've brought up with you! She'll never da 
for London.” 

-“T told the man not to go near her, my lord.” 

‘“‘What’s the use of her if no one can go near her?” 

**T can, my lord.” 

*““ By Jove, she’s a splendid creature to look at! but I don’t 
know what you can do with her here, my man. She’s fit to go 
double with Satan himself.” 

“She'll do for me to ride after my lady well enough. If only 
I had room to exercise her a bit !” 

“Take her into the park early in the morning, and gallop her 
round. Only mind she don’t break your neck. What can have 
_ made Lady Lossie send for such a devil as that!” 

Malcolm held his peace. 

“Tl try her myself some morning,” said his lordship, who 
thought himself a better horseman than he was. 

“IT wouldn’t advise you, my lord.” 

“Who the devil asked your advice?” 

“Ten to one she'll kill you, my lord.” | 

* That’s my look out,” said Liftore, and went into the house. 

As soon as he had done with Kelpie, Malcolm dressed him: 
self in his new livery, and went to tell his mistress of her arrival. 
She sent him orders to bring the mare round in half-an-hour. 
He went back to her, took off her muzzle, fed her, and while she 
ate her corn, put on the spurs he had prepared expressly for her 

-use—a spike without a rowel, rather blunt, but sharp indeed 
when sharply used—hke those of the Gauchos of the Pampas. 
Then he saddled her, and rode her round. 

Having had her fit of temper, she was, to all appearance, 
going to be fairly good for the rest of the day, and looked 
splendid. She was a large mare, nearly thoroughbred, but with 
more bone than usual for her breeding, which she carried 

_triumphantly—an animal most men would have been pleased to 
possess—and proud to ride. Florimel came to the door to see 
her, accompanied by Liftore, and was so delighted with the 
very sight of her that she sent at once to the stables for her own 
horse, that she might ride out attended by Malcolm. His lord- 
‘ship also ordered his horse. | 

They went straight to Rotten Row for a little gallop, and 
Kelpie was behaving very vell for her. 

“What ad you have two such savages, horse and groom both, 
up from Scotland for, Florimel?” asked his lordship, as they 


KELPIE IN LONDON. 69 


cantered gently along the Row, Kelpie coming sideways after 
them, as if she would fain alter the pairing of her legs. 

Florimel turned and cast an admiring glance on the two. 

“Do you know I am rather proud of them,” she said. 

““He’s a clumsy fellow, the groom; and for the mare, she’s 
downright wicked,” said Liftore. 

“At least neither is a hypocrite,” returned Florimel, with 
Malcolm’s account of his quarrel with the factor in her mind. 
“The mare is just as wicked as she looks, and the man as good. 
Believe me, my lord, that man you call a savage never told a lie 
in his life!” 

As she spoke she looked him hard in the face—with her 
father in her eyes. 

Liftore could not return the look with equal steadiness. It 
seemed for the moment to be inquiring too curiously. 

~ “J know what you mean,” he said ‘You don’t believe my 
professions.” 

As he spoke he edged his horse close up to hers. 

“‘ But,” he went on, “if I know that I speak the truth when I 
swear that I love every breath of wind that has but touched 
your dress as it passed, that I would die gladly for one loving 
touch of your hand—why should you not let me ease my heart 
by saying so? Florimel, my life has been a different thing from 
the moment I saw you first. It has grown precious to me since 
I saw that it might be Confound the fellow ! what’s he about 
now with his horse-devil ?” 

For at that moment his lordship’s horse, a high-bred but 
timid animal, sprang away from the side of Florimel’s, and there 
stood Kelpie on her hind legs, pawing the air between him and 
his lady, and Florimel, whose old confidence in Malcolm was 
now more than revived, was laughing merrily at the discomfiture 
of his attempt at love-making. Her behaviour and his own 
frustration put him in such a rage that, wheeling quickly round, 
he struck Kelpie, just as she dropped on all fours, a great cut 
with his whip across the haunches. She plunged and kicked 
violently, came within an inch of breaking his horse’s leg, and 
flew across the rail into the park. Nothing could have suited 
Malcolm better. He did not punish her as he would have done 
had she been to blame, for he was always just to lower as well 
as higher animals, but he took her a great round at racing speed, ~ 
while his mistress and her companion looked on, and everyone 
in the Row stopped and stared. Finally, he hopped her over the 
rail again, and brought her up dripping and foaming to his mistress. 
Florimel’s eyes were flashing, and Liftore looked “still anery, 


a! eS os 
OS es ee 


gs 5 ae Say 3% ’ eo Sh ae ast To oe 


70 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


“Dinna du that again, my lord,” said Malcolm. “ Ye're no 
my maister; an’ gien ye war, ye wad hae no richt to brak my 
neck.” 

“No fear of that! That’s not how your neck will be broken, 
my man,” said his lordship, with an attempted laugh ; for though 
he was all the angrier that he was ashamed of what he had done, 
he dared not further wrong the servant before his mistress. 

A policeman came up and laid his hand on Kelpie’s bridle. 

“Take care what you're about,” said Malcolm; “the mare’s 
not safe.—There’s my mistress, the Marchioness of Lossie.” 

The man saw an ugly look in Kelpie’s eye, withdrew his hand, 
and turned to Florimel. 

“My groom is not to blame,” said she. ‘ Lord Liftore struck 
his mare, and she became ungovernable.” 

The man gave a look at Liftore, seemed to take his likeness, 
touched his hat, and withdrew. 

“You'd better ride the jade home,” said Liftore. 

Malcolm only looked at his mistress. She moved on, and he 


followed. 


He was not so innocent in the affair as he had seemed. The 
expression of Liftore’s face as he drew nearer to Florimel, was to 
him so hateful, that he interfered in a very literal fashion: Kelpie 
had been doing no more than he had made her until the earl 
struck her. 

“Let us ride to Richmond to-morrow,” said Florimel, “and 
have a good gallop in the park. Did you ever see a finer sight 
than that animal on the grass?” 

“The fellow’s too heavy for her,” said Liftore. ‘I should 
very much like to try her myseif.” 

Florimel pulled up, and turned to Malcolm. 

“MacPhail,” she said, “ have that mare of yours ready when- 


ever Lord Liftore chooses to ride her.” 


“‘T beg your pardon, my lady,” returned Malcolm, ‘but would 
your ladyship make a condition with my lord that he shall not 
mount her anywhere on the stones.” — 

“ By Jove!” said Liftore scornfully. ‘‘ You fancy yourself the 
only man that can ride!” 

“Tt’s nothing to me, my lord, if you break your neck ; but I 
am bound to tell you I do zo¢ think your lordship will sit my 
mare. Stoat can’t; and I can only because I know her as well 
as my own palm.” 

The young earl made no answer and they rode on—Malcolm 
nearer than his lordship liked. 

“T can’t think, Florimel,” he said, “ why you should want that - 


.« fad - Re ho x Ra Pe si ss tat eS I ees ly Tae ue 


SF ie fe ta, > 


BLUE PETER. 71 


fellow about you again. He is not only very awkward, but 
insolent as well.” 

“1 should call it straightforward,” returned Florimel. 

“My dear Lady Lossie! See how close he is riding to us now.” 

“ He is anxious, I daresay, as to your Lordship’s behaviour. 
He is like some dogs that are a little too careful of their 
mistresses—touchy as to how they are addressed ;—not a bad 
fault in dog—or groom either. He saved my life once, and he 
was a great favourite with my father: I won't hear anything 
against him.” : 

“ But for your own sake—just consider :—what will people say 
if you show any preference for a man like that?” said Liftore, 
who had already become jealous of the man who in his heart he 
feared could ride better than himself. 

“ My lord!” exclaimed Florimel, with a mingling of surprise: 
and indignation in her voice, and suddenly quickening her pace, 
dropped him behind. 

Malcolm was after her so instantly that it brought him abreast 
of Liftore. 

“ Keep your own place,” said his lordship, with stern rebuke. 

“1 keep my place to my mistress,” returned Malcolm. 

Liftore looked at him as it he would strike him. But he 
thought better ot it apparently, and rode after Florimel. 


CHAPTER XX. 
BLUE PETER. 


By the time he had put up Kelpie, Malcolm found that his only 
chance of seeing Blue Peter before he left London, lay in going 
direct to the wharf. On his road he reflected on what had just 
passed, and was not altogether pleased with himself. He had 
nearly lost his temper with Liftore ; and if he should act in any 


way unbefitting the position he had assumed, from the duties of 


which he was in no degree exonerated by the fact that he had 
assumed it for a purpose, it would not only be a failure in 
himself, but an impediment perhaps insurmountable in the 
path of his service. To attract attention was almost to insure 
frustration. When he reached the wharf, he found they had 
nearly got her freight on board the smack. Blue Peter stood on 


Be: THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE. 
the forecastle. He went to him and explained how it was that 

. he had been unable to join him sooner. a 
ps “I didna ken ye,” said Blue Peter, “in sic playactor kin’ 0’ 
ie na Claes.” 
“ Nobody in London would look at me twice now. But you re- 
member how we were stared at when first we came,” said Malcolm. 
~~“ Ow ay!” returned Peter with almost a groan; “there’s a 
__~ gsair cheenge past upo’ you, but I’m gauin’ hame to the auld wy 
:. o things. The herrin’ ‘Il be aye to the fore, P’m thinkin’ ; an’ 
baer. pien we getna a harbour we'll get a h’aven.” 
a Judging it better to take no notice of this pretty strong 
expression of distrust and disappointment, Malcolm led him 
___aside, and putting a few sovereigns in his hand, said, 
“‘ Here, Peter, that will take you home.” 


a oe ’s é a heap ower muckle. I'll tak naething — . 
~~ rae ye but what'll pay my wy.” “ - 


a2 “And what is such a trifle between friends ?” 
| “There was a time, Ma’colm, whan what was mine was yours, 
an’ what was yours was mine, but that time’s gane.’ 
_~ Tm sorry to hear that, Peter; but still I owe you as much as 
iat for bare wages.” 
“There was no word o’ wages when ye said, Peter, come to’ 
Lon’on wi me.—Davie there—he maun hae his wauges.” 
“Weel,” said Malcolm,. thinking it better to give way, “I’m 
, no abune bein’ obleeged to ye, Peter. I maun bide my time, I 
-. see, for ye winna lippen till me. Eh man! your faith’s sune at 
: the wa’.” 

“ Faith! what faith?” returned Peter, almost fiercely. “‘ We’re 
tauld to put no faith in man; an’ gien I bena come to that yet 
freely, ’m nearer till’t nor ever I was afore.” 

e “Weel, Peter, a’ ’at I can say is, I ken my ain hert, an’ ye 
te, dinna ken’t.” 
z “‘ Daur ye tell me!” cried Peter. “ Disna the Scriptur’ itsel’ 
say the hert o’ man is deceitfu’ an’ despratly wickit : who can 
: know it?” 
ee “Peter,” said Malcolm, and he spoke very gently, for he 
understood that love and not hate was at the root of his friend’s 
- anger and injustice, “‘ gien ye winna lippen to me, there’s nacthing : 
| for’t but I maun lippen to you. Gang hame to yer wife, an’ gi’e 
“ _ her my compliments, an’ tell her a’ ’at’s past atween you an’ me, 
2 as near, word for word, as ye can tell the same ; an’ say till her, 
I pray her to judge atween you an’ me—an’ to mak the best 0” 
me to ye ’at she can, for I wad ill thole to loss yer freenship, Peter.” 
The same moment came the command for all but passengers 


“ores 


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= lo” SAR Ne * ait, nears anaes yea eS eg ETC : . 
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7 - ents * i 


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ye 
' 


- BLUE PETER. 73 


to go ashore. The men grasped each other’s hand, looked each 
other in the eyes with something of mutual reproach, and parted 
—Blue Peter down the river to Scaurnose and Annie, Malcolm 
to the yacht lying still in the Upper Pool. 

He saw it taken properly in charge, and arranged for having it 
towed up the river and anchored in the Chelsea Reach. 

When Blue Peter found himself once more safe out at sea, with 
twelve hundred yards of canvas spread above him in one mighty 
wing betwixt boom and gaff, and the wind blowing half a gale, 
the weather inside him began to change a little. He began to 
see that he had not been behaving altogether as a friend ought. 
It was not that he saw reason for being better satisfied with 
Malcolm or his conduct, but reason for being worse satisfied with 
himself ; and the consequence was that he grew still angrier with 
Malcolm, and the wrong he had done him seemed more and 
more an unpardonable one. 

When he was at length seated on the top of the coach running 
betwixt Aberdeen and Fochabers, which would set him down as 
near Scaurnose as coach could go, he began to be doubtful how 
Annie, formally retained on Malcolm’s side by the message he had 
to give her, would judge in the question between them; for what 
did she know of theatres and such places? And the doubt 
strengthened as he neared home. ‘The consequence was that he 
felt in no haste to execute Malcolm’s commission; and hence, 
the delights of greeting over, Annie was the first to open her bag 
of troubles: Mr Crathie had given them notice to quit at 
Midsummer. 

“ Jist what I micht hae expeckit !” cried Blue Peter, starting 
up. “Woe be to the man ’at puts his trust in princes! [I luikit 
till him to save the fisher-fowk, an’ no to the Lord; an’ the tooer 
o’ Siloam ’s fa’en upo’ my heid:—what does he, the first thing, 
but turn his ain auld freen’s oot o’ the sma beild they had! That — 
his father nor his gran’father, ’at was naither o’ them God-fearin’ 
men, wad never hae put their han’ till. Eh, wuman ! but my 
hert’s sair ’ithin me. To think o’ Ma’ colm MacPhail turnin’ his 
back upo’ them ’at’s been freens wi ’im sin ever he was a wee 
loonie, rinnin’ aboot in coaties !” 

“ Hoot, man! what’s gotten intill yer heid ?” returned his wife. 
“It’s no Ma’colm ; it’s the illwully factor. Bide ye till he comes 
till ’s ain, an’ Maister Crathie ‘Il hae to lauch o’ the wrang side 0’ 
’s mou’.”” 

But thereupon Peter began his tale of how he had fared in 
London, and in the excitement of keenly anticipated evil, and 
with his recollection of events wrapped in the mist of a displea- 


ek HE MARQUIS | OF LOSSIE. ea “a 


“hes 


that Malcolm was the son of Griselda Campbell. The discovery 


7e 


sure which had deepened during his journey, he so clothed the 
facts of Malcolm’s conduct in the garments of his own reclifge = ey 
that the mind of Annie Mair also became speedily possessed 
with the fancy that their friend’s good fortune had upset his 
- moral equilibrium, and that he had not only behaved to her hus- 


band with pride and arrogance, breaking all the ancient bonds of 
friendship between them, “but had tried to seduce him from the 


ways of righteousness by inveigling him into a playhouse, where 
_ marvels of wickedness were going on at the very time. She wept 
_a few bitter tears of disappointment, dried them hastily, lifted her 
head high, and proceeded to set her affairs in order as if death + 


were at the door. . 
- For indeed it was to them as a death to leave Scaurnose. 


True, Annie came from inland, and was not of the fisher-race, 
but this part of the coast she had known from childhood, and in 
this cottage all her married years had been spent, while banish-— 


ment of the sort involved banishment from every place they 
knew, for all the neighbourhood was equally under the power of 
the factor. And poor as their accommodation here was, they 


__ had plenty of open air and land-room ; whereas if they should be 
ei compelled to go to any of the larger ports, it would be to circum- 


‘stances greatly inferior, and a neighbourhood in all pe 


: AR very undesirable for their children. 


CHAPTER XXL 


MR GRAHAM. 


WHEN Malcolm at length reached his lodging, he found there a 
letter from Miss Horn, containing the much desired information 
as to where the schoolmaster was to be found in the London ~ 
wilderness. It was now getting rather late, and the dusk of a 


spring night had begun to gather; but little more than the 


breadth of the Regent’s Park lay ‘between him and his best 
_ friend—his only one in London—and he set out immediately for , 


Camden Town. 
’ The relation between him and his late schoolmaster was_ 


indeed of the strongest and closest. Long before Malcolm was 
born, and ever since, had Alexander Grahaa loved Malcolm’s 


mother ; but not until within the last few months had he learned — 


“and 


can 


a 


5 
&' 


z 


¢: 
io 
sf 
sang 


af 
Be 


MR GRAHAM. 75 


was to the schoolmaster like the bursting out of a known flower 
on an unknown plant. He knew then, not why he had loved 
the boy, for he loved every one of his pupils more or less, but 
why he had loved him with such a pecuhar tone of affection. 

It was a lovely evening. There had been rain in the after- 
noon as Malcolm walked home from the Pool, but before the 
sun set it had cleared up; and as he went through the park 
towards the dingy suburb, the first heralds of the returning youth 
of the year met him from all sides in the guise of odours—not 
yet those of flowers, but the more ethereal if less sweet, scents of 
buds and grass, and ever pure earth moistened with the waters of 
heaven. And to his surprise he found that his sojourn in a 
great city, although as yet so brief, had already made the open 
earth with its corn and grass more dear to him and wonderful. 
But when he left the park, and crossed the Hampstead Road 


_ into a dreary region of dwellings crowded and commonplace as 


the thoughts of a worshipper of Mammon, houses upon houses, 
here and there shepherded by a tall spire, it was hard to believe 
that the spring was indeed coming slowly up this way. 

After not a few inquiries, he found himself at a stationer’s 


shop, a poor little place, and learned that Mr Graham lodged 


over it, and was then at home. 

He was shown up into a shabby room, with an iron bedstead, 
a chest of drawers daubed with sickly paint, a table with a stained 
red cover, a few bookshelves in a recess over the wash-stand, and 
two chairs seated with hair-cloth. On one of these, by the side 
of a small fire in a neglected grate, sat the schoolmaster reading 
his Plato. On the table beside him lay his Greek New Testa- 
ment, and an old edition of George Herbert. He looked up as 
the door opened, and, notwithstanding his strange dress, recog- 
nising at once his friend and pupil, rose hastily, and welcomed 
him with hand and eyes, and countenance, but without word 
spoken. For a few moments the two stood silent, holding each 
the other’s hand, and gazing each in the other’s eyes, then sat 
down, still speechless, one on each side of the fire. 

They looked at each other and smiled, and again a minute 
passed. Then the schoolmaster rose, rang ‘the bell, and when it 
was answered by a rather careworn young woman, requested her 
to bring tea. 

“Tm sorry I cannot give you cakes or fresh butter, my lord,” 
he said with a smile, “and they were the first words spoken. 
“The former is not to be had, and the latter is beyond my 


‘means. But what I have will content one who is able to count 


that abundance which many would count privation.” 


eee ae rh 


76 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


He spoke in the choice word, measured phrase, and stately 
speech which Wordsworth says “grave livers do in Scotland 
use,” but under it all rang a tone of humour, as if he knew the 
form of his utterance too important for the subject-matter of it, 
and would gently amuse with it both his visitor and himself. 

He was a man of middle height, but so thin that notwith- 
standing a slight stoop in the shoulders, he looked rather tall ; 
much on the young side of fifty, but apparently a good way on 
the other, partly from the little hair he had being grey. He had 
sandy-coloured whiskers, and a shaven chin. Except his large 
sweetly closed mouth, and ‘rather long upper lip, there was 
nothing very notable in his features. At ordinary moments, 
indeed, there was nothing in his appearance other than insigni- 
ficant to the ordinary observer. His eyes were of a pale quiet 
blue, but when he smiled they sparkled and throbbed with 
light. He wore the same old black tail-coat he had worn last in 
his school at Portlossie, but the white neckcloth he had always 
been seen in there had given place to a black one: that was the 
sole change in the aspect of the man. 

About Portlossie he had been greatly respected, notwithstand- 
ing the rumour that he was a “stickit minister,” that is, one who 
had failed in the attempt to preach; and when the presbytery 
dismissed him on the charge of heresy, there had been many 
tears on the part of his pupils, and much childish defiance of his 
unenviable successor. 

Few words passed between the two men until they had had 
their tea, and then followed a long talk, Malcolm first explaining 
his present position, and then answering many questions of the 
master as to how things had gone since he left. Next followed 
anxious questions on Malcolm’s side as to how his friend found 
himself in the prison of London. 

“JT do miss the air, and the laverocks (skylarks), and the 
gowans,” he confessed ; “but I have them all in my mind, and 
at my age a man ought to be able to satisfy himself with the 
idea of a thing in his soul. Of outer things that have contri- 
buted to his inward growth, the memory alone may then well be 
enough. The sights which, when I lie down ‘to sleep, rise 
before that inward eye Wordsworth calls the bliss of solitude, 
have upon me power almost of a spiritual vision, so purely 
radiant are they of that which dwells in them, the divine thought 
which is their substance, their Aypostasts. My boy! I doubt if 
you can tell what it is to know the presence of the living God 
in and about you.” 

“TJ houp I hae a bit notion 0” ’t, sir,” said Malcolm, 


MR GRAHAM. y 


“ But believe me that in any case, however much a man may 
have of it, he may have it endlessly more. Since I left the cot- 
tage where I hoped to end my ddys under the shadow of the 
house of your ancestors, since I came into this region of bricks 
and smoke, and the crowded tokens too plain of want and care, 
I have found a reality in the things I had been trying to teach 
you at Portlossie, such as I had before imagined only in my best 
moments. And more still: I am now far better able to under- 
stand how it must have been with our Lord when he was trying 
to teach the men and women of Palestine to have faith in God. 
Depend upon it, we get our best use of life in learning by the 
facts of its ebb and flow to understand the Son of Man. And 
again, when we understand Him, then only do we understand 
our life and ourselves. Never can we know the majesty of the 
will of God concerning us except by understanding Jesus and 
the work the Father gave Him to do. Now, nothing is of a 
more heavenly delight than to enter into a dusky room in the 
house of your friend, and there, with a blow of the heavenly rod, 
draw light from the dark wall—open a window, a fountain of the 
eternal light, and let in the truth which is the life of the world. 
Joyously would a man spend his life, right joyously even if the 
road led to the gallows, in showing the grandest he sees—the 
splendid purities of the divine religion—the mountain top up to 
which the voice of God is ever calling his children. Yes, I can 
understand even how a man might live, like the good hermits of 
old, in triumphant meditation upon such all-satisfying truths, 
and let the waves of the world’s time wash by him in unheeded 
flow until his cell changed to his tomb, and his spirit soared 
free. But to spend your time in giving little lessons when you 
have great ones to give; in teaching the multiplication table the 
morning after you made at midnight a grand discovery upon the 
very summits of the moonlit mountain range of the mathematics; 
in enforcing the old law, Zhou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself, 
when you know in your own heart that not a soul can ever learn to 
keep it without first learning to fulfil an infinitely greater one— 
to love his neighbour even as Christ hath loved him—then indeed 
one may well grow disheartened, and feel as if he were not in 
the place prepared for, and at the work required of him. But it 
is just then that he must go back to school himself, and learn 
not only the patience of God who keeps the whole dull obstinate 
world alive, while generation after generation is born and 
vanishes, and of the mighty multitude only one here and there 
rises up from the fetters of humanity into the freedom of the 
sons of God—and yet goes on teaching the whole, and bringing 


8 —s THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


every man who will but turn his ear a little towards the voice 
that calls him, nearer and nearer to the second birth—of sonship 
and liberty—not only this divine patience must he learn, but the 
divine insight as well, which in every form spies the reflex of the 
truth it cannot contain, and in every lowliest lesson sees the 
highest drawn nearer, and the soul growing alive unto God.” 


oes 


CHAPTER XXIL 
RICHMOND PARK. 


THE next day at noon, mounted on Kelpie, Malcolm was in 
attendance upon his mistress, who was eager after a gallop in 
Richmond Park. Lord Liftore, who had intended to accompany 
her, had not made his appearance yet, but Florimel did not 
seem the less desirous of setting out at the time she had 
appointed Malcolm. ‘The fact was she had said one o'clock to 
Liftore, intending twelve, that she might get away without him, 
Kelpie. seemed on her good behaviour, and they started quietly 
enough. By the time they had got out of the park upon the 
Kensington Road, however, the evil spirit had begun to wake in 
her. But even when she was quietest, she was nothing to be 
trusted, and about London Malcolm found he dared never let 
his thoughts go, or take his attention quite off her ears. They 
got to Kew Bridge in safety nevertheless, though whether they 
were to get safely across was doubtful all the time they were 
upon it, for again and again she seemed on the very point of 
clearing the stone balustrade, but for the terrible bit and chain 
without which Malcolm never dared ride her. Still, whatever 
her caracoles or escapades, they caused Florimel nothing but 
amusement, for her confidence in Malcolm—that he could do 
whatever he believed he could—was unbounded. They got 
through Richmond—with some trouble, but hardly were they 
well into the park, when Lord Liftore, followed by his groom, 
came suddenly up behind them at such a rate as quite destroyed 
the small stock of equanimity Kelpie had to go upon. She 
bolted. 
Florimel was a good rider, and knew herself quite mistress of 
her horse, and if she now followed, it was at her own will, and 
with a design ; she wanted to make the horses behind her bolt 
also if she could. His lordship came flying after her, and his 


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RICHMOND PARK. 79 


groom after him, but she kept increasing her pace until they were 


“4 § as Piss i 


alt at full stretch, thundering over the grass—upon which 
Malcolm had at once turned Kelpie, giving her little rein and 
plenty of spur. Gradually Florimel slackened speed, and at last 
pulled up suddenly. Liftore and his groom went past her like 
the wind. She turned at right angles and galloped back to the 
road. ‘There, on a gaunt thoroughbred, with a furnace of old 
life in him yet, sat Lenorme, whom she had already passed and 
signalled to remain thereabout. They drew alongside of each 
other, but they did not shake hands; they only looked each in 
the other’s eyes, and for a few moments neither spoke. The 
three riders were now far away over the park, and still Kelpie 
held on and the other horses after her. 
“I little expected swch a pleasure,” said Lenorme. 

S| meant to give it you, though,” said Florimel, with a merry 
laugh. ‘Bravo, * Kelpie! take them with you,” she cried, look- 
ing ” after the still retreating horsemen. “I have gota familiar 
since I saw you last, Raoul,” she went on. “See if I don’t get 
some good for us out of him!—We’ll move gently along the 
road here, and by the time Liftore’s horse is spent, we shall be 
ready for a good gallop. I want to tell you all about it. I did 
not mean Liftore to. be here when I sent you word, but he has ~ 
been too much for me.” 

Lenorme replied with a look of gratitude ; and as they walked 
their horses along, she told him all concerning Malcolm and Kelpie. 

“TLiftore hates him already,” she said, “and I can hardly 
wonder; but you must not, for you will find him useful. He is 
one I can depend upon. You should have seen the look Liftore 
gave him when he told him he could not sit his mare! It would 
have been worth gold to you.” 

Lenorme winced a little. | 

“ He thinks no end of his riding,” Florimel continued ; “ but 
if it were not so improper to have secrets with another gentleman, 
I would tell you that he rides—just pretty well.” 

Lenorme’s great brow gloomed over his eyes like the Eiger in 
a mist, but he said nothing yet. 

“He wants to ride Kelpie, and I have told my groom to let 
him have her. Perhaps she’ll break his neck.” 

Lenorme smiled grimly. 

“You wouldn’t mind, would you, Raoul?” added Florimel, 
with a roguish look. 

“Would you mind telling me, Florimel, what you mean by the 
impropriety of having secrets with another gentleman? ae y & 


the other gentleman ?” é 


80 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE. 


“Why, of course! You know Liftore imagines he has only 
to name the day.” 

‘And you allow an idiot like that to cherish such a degrading 
idea of you.” ; 

“Why, Raoul! what does it matter what a fool like him 
thinks ?” 

“Tf you don’t mind it, I do. I feel it an insult to me that he 
should dare think of you like that.” 

“YT don’t know. I suppose I shall have to marry him some 
day.” 

“Lady Lossie, do you want to make me hate you ?” 

“Don't be foolish, Raoul. It won’t be to-morrow—nor the 
next day. Sreuet euch des Lebens !” 

“QO Florimel! what zs to come of this? Do you want to 
break my heart?—I hate to talk rubbish. You won’t kill me— 
you will only ruin my work, and possibly drive me mad.” 

Florimel drew close to his side, laid her hand on his arm, and 
looked in his face with a witching entreaty. 

“We have the present, Raoul,” she said. 

“So has the butterfly,” answered Lenorme; “but I had 
rather be the caterpillar with a future.—Why don’t you put a 
stop to the man’s lovemaking? He can’t love you or any 
woman. He does not know what love means. It makes me ill 
to hear him when he thinks he is paying you irresistible compli- 
ments. They are so silly! so mawkish! Good _ heavens, 
Florimel! can you imagine that smile every day and always? 
Like the rest of his class he seems to think himself perfectly 
justified in making fools of women. J want to help you to grow 
as beautiful as God meant you to be when he thought of you 
first. I want you to be my embodied vision of life, that I may 
for ever worship at your feet—live in you, die with you: such 
bliss, even were there nothing beyond, would be enough for the 
heart of a God to bestow.” 

“Stop, stop, Raoul; I’m not worthy of such love,” said 
Florimel, again laying her hand on his arm. “I do wish for 
your sake I had been born a village-girl.” 

“Tf you had been, then I might have wished for your sake 
that I had been born a marquis. As it is I would rather bea 
painter than any nobleman in Europe—that is, with you to love 
me. Your love is my patent of nobility. But I may glorify 
what you love—and tell you that I can confer something on you 
also—what none of your noble admirers can.—God forgive me ! 
you will make me hate them all.” 

“Raoul, this won't do at all,” said Florimel, with the authority 


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"ate Re } ca Bek, pe ie he ae a0] bs OW Ree eal Wei tn fi ie Oy > 
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ye oad 5 ae TO a ks < ; : Ml Wat iat : 


RICHMOND PARK. | 81 


that should belong only to the one in the right. And indeed 
for the moment she felt the dignity of restraining a too impetuous 
passion. ‘ You will spoil everything. I dare not come to your 
studio if you are going to behave like this. It would be very 
wrong of me. And if I am never to come and see you, I shall 
die—I know I shall.” 

The girl was so full of the delight of the secret love between 
them, that she cared only to live in the present as if there were 
no future beyond: Lenorme wanted to make that future like 
but better than the present. The word marriage put Florimel 
inarage. She thought herself superior to Lenorme, because he, 
in the dread of losing her, would have her marry him at once, 
while she was more than content with the bliss of seeing him » 
now and then. Often and often her foolish talk stung him with 
bitter pain—worst of all when it compelled him to doubt whether 
there was that in her to be loved as he was capable of loving. 
Yet always the conviction that there was a deep root of noble- 
ness in her nature again got uppermost; and, had it not been so, 
I fear he would, nevertheless, have continued to prove her 
Irresistible as often as she chose to exercise upon him the full 
might of her witcheries. At one moment she would reveal 
herself in such a sudden rush of tenderness as seemed possible 
only to one ready to become his altogether and for ever; the 
next she would start away as if she had never meant anything, 
and talk as if not a thought were in her mind beyond the cultiva- 
tion of a pleasant acquaintance doomed to pass with the season, 
if not with the final touches to her portrait. Or she would fall 
to singing some song he had taught her, more likely a certain 
one he had written in a passionate mood of bitter tenderness, 
with the hope of stinging her love to some show of deeper life ; 
but would, while she sang, look with merry defiance in his face, 
as if she adopted in seriousness what he had written in loving 
and sorrowful satire. me 

They rode in silence for some hundred yards. At length he 
spoke, replying to her last asseveration. 

“Then what cam you gain, child,” he said 

Will you dare to call me child—a marchioness in my own 
right !” she cried, playfully threatening. him with uplifted whip, 
in the handle of which the little jewels sparkled. 

“What, then, can you gain, my lady marchioness,” he resumed, 
with soft seriousness, and a sad smile, “by marrying one of your 
own rank?—TI should lay new honour and consideration at your 
feet. I am young. I have done fairly well already. But I 
have done nothing to what I could do now, it only my heart lay 

F 


82 - ‘THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE, 


safe in the port of peace :—you know where alone that is for me, 
my—lady marchioness. And you know too that the names of 
great painters go down with honour from generation to genera- 
tion, when my lord this or my lord that is remembered only as a 
label to the picture that makes the painter famous. I am nota 
great painter yet, but I will be one if you will be good to me 
And men shall say, when they look on your portrait, in ages to 
come: No wonder he was such a painter when he had sucha 
woman to paint.” 

He spoke the words with a certain tone of dignified 

playfulness. 
“When shall the woman sit to you again, painter?” said 
Florimel—sole reply to his rhapsody. 

The painter thought a little. ‘Then he said: 

“T don’t like that tire-woman of yours. She has two evil eyes 
—one for each of us. I have again and again caught their ex- 
pression when they were upon us, and she thought none were 
upon her: I can see without lifting my head when I am painting, 
and my art has made me quick at catching expressions, and, I 
hope, at interpreting them.” | 

“JT don’t altogether like her myself,” said Florimel. “ Of 
late I am not so sure of her as I used to be. But what canI do? 
I must have somebody with me, you know.—A thought strikes me, 
Yes. I won’t say now what it is lest I should disappoint my— 
painter ; but—yes—you shall see what I will dare for you, faith- 
less man !” 

She set off at a canter, turned on to the grass, and rode to 
meet Liftore, whom she saw in the distance returning, followed 
by the two grooms. 

“Come on, Raoul,” she cried, looking back ; “I must account 
for you. He sees I have not been alone.” 

Lenorme joined her, and they rode along side by side. 

The earl and the painter knew each other: as they drew near, 
the painter lifted his hat, and the earl nodded. 

“You owe Mr Lenorme some acknowledgment, my lord, for 
_ taking charge of me after your sudden desertion,” said Florimel. 

“Why did you gallop off in such a mad fashion ? ” 
~ “Yam sorry,” began Liftore a little embarrassed. 

“Qh! don’t trouble yourself to apologise,” said Florimel. “I 
have always understood that great horsemen find a horse more 
interesting than a lady. It is a mark of their breed, I am told.” 

She knew that Liftore would not be ready to confess he could 
not hold his hack. 

“Tf it hadn’t been for Mr Lenorme,” she added, “I should 


RICHMOND PARK. 83. 


have been left without a squire, subject to any whim of my four 
footed servant here.” 

As she spoke she patted the neck of her horse. The earl, on 
his side, had been looking the painter’s horse up and down with 
a would-be humorous expression of criticism. 

“‘T beg your pardon, marchioness,” he replied ; “but you 
pulled up so quickly that we shot past you. I thought you were 
close behind, and preferred following.—Seen his best days, eh, 
Lenorme ?” he concluded, willing to change the subject. - 

“JT fancy he doesn’t think so,” returned the painter. “I 
bought him out of a butterman’s cart, three months ago. He's 
been coming to himself ever since. Look at his eye, my lord.” 

“ Are you knowing in horses, then?” 

“TJ can’t say I am, beyond knowing how to treat them some- 
thing like human beings.” 

“That's no ill,” said Malcolm to himself. He was just near 
enough, on the pawing and foaming Kelpie, to catch what was pass 
ing. —“‘ The fallow ‘ll du. He’s worth a score 0’ sic yerls as yon.’ 

“Ha! ha!” said his lordship ; “I don’t know about that.— 
He’s not the best of tempers, I can see. But look at that demon 
of Lady Lossie’s—that black mare there! I wish you could 
teach her some of your humanity.”—-By the way, Florimel, I 
think now we ave upon the grass,”—he said it loftily, as if sub- 
mitting to an injustice—‘“I will presume to mount the ~ 
reprobate.” 

The gallop had communicated itself to Liftore’s blood, and, be- 
sides, he thought after such arun Kelpie would be less extravagant 
in her behaviour. 

«She is at your service,” said Florimel. 

He dismounted, his groom rode up, he threw him the reins, 
and called Malcolm. 

*« Bring your mare here, my man,” he said. 

Malcolm rode her up half way, and dismounted. 

“Tf your lordship is going to ride her,” he said, “ will you 
please get on her here. I would rather not take her near the 
other horses.” 

‘Well, you know her better than I do.—You and I must ida 
about the same length, I think.” 

So saying his lordship carelessly measured the stirrup-leather 
against his arm, and took the reins. 

“ Stand well forward, my lord. Don’t mind turning your back 
to her head: I'll look after her teeth ; you mind her hind-hoof,” 
said Malcolm, with her head in one hand and the stirrup in the 
other. 


84 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


Kelpie stood rigid as a rock, and the earl swung himself up 
cleverly enough. But hardly was he in the saddle, and Malcolm 
had just let her go, when she plunged and lashed out; then, 
having failed to unseat her rider, stood straight up on her hind legs. 

“* Give her her head, my lord,” cried Malcolm. 

She stood swaying in the air, Liftore’s now frightened face half 
hid in her mane, and his spurs stuck in her flanks. 

“Come off her, my lord, for God’s sake. Off with you!” 
cried Malcolm, as he leaped at her head. “She'll be on her 
back in a moment.” 

Liftore only clung the harder. Malcolm caught her head— 
just in time: she was already falling backwards. 

“Let all go, my lord. ‘Throw yourself off.” 


He swung her towards him with all his strength, and just as 


his lordship fell off behind her, she fell sideways to Malcolm, 
and clear of Liftore. 

Malcolm was on the side away from the little group, and their 
own horses were excited, those who had looked breathless on at 
the struggle could not tell how he had managed it, but when 
they expected to see the groom writhing under the weight of the 


demoness, there he was with his knee upon her head—while_ 


Liftore was gathering himself up from the ground, only just 
beyond the reach of her iron-shod hoofs. 

“Thank God!” said Florimel, “there is no harm done.— 
Well, have you had enough of her yet, Liftore?” 

“ Pretty nearly, I think,” said his lordship, with an attempt at 
a laugh, as he walked rather feebly and foolishly towards ‘his 
horse. He mounted with some difficulty, and looked very pale. 

“‘T hope youre not much hurt,” said Florimel kindly, as she 
moved alongside of him. 

“Not in the least—only disgraced,” he answered, almost 
angrily. “ The brute’s a perfect Satan. You must part with her. 
With such a horse and such a groom you'll get yourself talked of 
all over London. I believe the fellow himself was at the bottom 
of it. You really must sell her.” 

“IT would, my lord, if you were my groom,” answered Florimel, 
whom his accusation of Malcolm had filled with angry contempt ; 
and she moved away towards the still prostrate mare. 

Malcolm was quietly seated on her head. She had ceased 
sprawling, and lay nearly motionless, but for the heaving of her 
sides with her huge inhalations. She knew from experience that 
struggling was useless. 

“T beg your pardon, my lady,” said Malcolm, “ but I daren’t 
get up.” 


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~ 2. ed 
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4 aids at 


RICHMOND PARK. 85 


“‘ How long do you mean to sit there then?” she asked. 

“If your ladyship wouldn’t mind riding home without me, I 
would give her a good half hour of it. I always do when she 
_ throws herself over like that.—I’ve gat my Epictetus ?” he asked 
himself, feeling in his coat-pocket. : 

“Do as you please,” answered his mistress. ‘Let me see 
you when you get home. I should like to know you are safe.” 

“Thank you, my lady; there’s little fear of that,” said 
Malcolm. 

Florimel returned to the gentlemen, and they rode homewards. 
On the way she said suddenly to the earl, 

“Can you tell me, Liftore, who Epictetus was ?” 

“Tm sure I don’t know,” answered his lordship. “One of 
the old fellows.” 

She turned to Lenorme. Happily the Christian heathen was 
not altogether unknown to the painter. 

“May I inquire why your ladyship asks?” he said, when he 
had told all he could at the moment recollect. 

“Because,” she answered, “I left my groom sitting on his 
horse’s head reading Epictetus.” 

“By Jove!” exclaimed Liftore. “Ha! ha! ha! In the 
original, I suppose !” 

“TI .don’t doubt it,” said Florimel. | 

In about two hours Malcolm reported himself. Lord Liftore 
had gone home, they told him. The painter-fellow, as Wallis 
called him, had stayed to lunch, but was now gone also, and 
Lady Lossie was alone in the drawing-room. 

She sent for him. 

“I am glad to see you safe, MacPhail,” she said. “It is clear 
your Kelpie—don't be alarmed ; I am not going to make you 
part with her—but it is clear she won’t always do for you to 
attend me upon. Suppose now I wanted to dismount and make 
a call, or go into a shop?” 

“There’s a sort of a friendship between your Abbot and her, 
my lady; she would stand all the better if I had him to hold.” 

“Well, but how would you put me up again?” 

“TI never thought of that, my lady. Of course I daren’t let 
you come near Kelpie.” : 

“Could you trust yourself to buy another horse to ride after 
me about town?” 

_ “No, my lady, not without a ten days’ trial. If lies stuck like 
London mud, there’s many a horse would never be seen again. 
But there’s Mr Lenorme! If he would go with me, I fancy 
between us we could do pretty well,” 


86 ‘THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


“Ah! a good idea,” returned his mistress. “ But what makes 
you think of him?” she added, willing enough to talk about 
him. 

“The look of the gentleman and his horse together, and what 
I heard him say,’ ’ answered Malcolm. 

“What did you hear him say?” 

“That he knew he had to treat horses something like human 
beings. I’ve often fancied, within the last few months, that God 
does with some people something like as I do with Kelpie.” 

“T know nothing about theology.” 

“I don’t fancy you do, my lady; but this concerns biography 
rather than theology. No one could tell what I meant except 
he had watched his own history, and that of people he knew.” 

“And horses too?” 

“It’s hard to get at their insides, my lady, but I suspect it must 
be so. J’ll ask Mr Graham.” 

“What Mr Graham ?” 

“The schoolmaster of Portlossie.” 

“Ts he in London, then?” 

“Ves, my lady. He believed too much to sipleaee the presby- 
tery, and they turned him out.” 

“T should like to see him. He was very attentive to my father 
_ on his death-bed.” 

‘Your ladyship will never know till you are dead yourself what 
Mr Graham did for my lord.” 

“What do you mean? What could he do for him?” 

“He helped him through sore trouble of mind, my lady.” 

Florimel was silent for a little, then repeated, 

*““T should like to see him, I ought to pay him some attention. 
Couldn’t I make them give him his school again ?” 

“T don’t know about that, my lady; but 1 am sure he would 
not take it against the will of the presbytery.” 

“T should like to do something for him. Ask him to call.” 

Boel: Our, ladyship lays your commands upon me,” ans 
Malcolm ; “otherwise I would rather not.” 

“Why 50, pray?” 

u Because, except he can be of any use to you, he will not 
come.’ 

“But I want to be of use to him.” 

“How, if I may ask, my lady?” 

“That I can’t exactly say on the spur of the moment. I must 
know the man first—especially if you are right in supposing he 

would not enjoy a victory over the presbytery. JZ should. He 
wouldn’t take Tae T fear.< 


PAINTER AND GROOM 87 


“Except it came of love or work, he would put it from him as 
he would brush the dust from his coat.” 

“J could introduce him to good society. That is no small 
privilege to one of his station.” 

“¢ He has more of that and better than your ladyship could give 
him. He holds company with Socrates and St. Paul, and greater 
still.” 

“ But they’re not like living people.” 

“Very like them, my lady —only far better company in general. 
But Mr Graham would leave Plato himself—yes, or St. Paul 
either, though he were sitting beside him in the flesh, to go and — 
help any old washerwoman that wanted him.” 

“Then I want him.” 

“No, my lady, you don’t want him.” 

“How dare you say so?” 

“Tf you did, you would go to him.” | 

Florimel’s eyes flashed, and her pretty lip curled. She turned 
to her writing-table, annoyed with herself that she could not find 
a fitting word wherewith to rebuke his presumption—rudeness, 
was it not?—and a feeling of angry shame arose in her, that she, 
the Marchioness of Lossie, had not dignity enough to prevent 
her own groom from treating her like a child. But he was far 
too valuable to quarrel with. 

She sat down and wrote a note. 

‘“'There,” she said, “take that note to Mr Lenorme. I have 
asked him to help you in the choice of a horse.” 

“ What price would you be willing to go to, my lady?” 

‘*T leave that to Mr Lenorme’s judgment—and your own,” she 
added. 

“Thank you, my lady,” said Malcolm, and was leaving the 
room, when Florimel called him back. 

“‘Next time you see Mr Graham,” she said, “give him my 
compliments, and ask him if I can be of any service to him.” 

“T'll do that, my lady. I am sure he will take it very kindly.” 

Florimel made no answer, and Malcolm went to find the 
painter. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 
PAINTER AND GROOM. 


‘THE address upon the note Malcolm had to deliver took him to 
a house in Chelsea:—one of a row of beautiful old houses fronting 


See ce 


88 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


the Thames, with little gardens between them and the road. 


_ The one he sought was overgrown with creepers, most of them 
now covered with fresh spring buds. The afternoon had turned 
cloudy, and a cold east wind came up the river, which, as the 
tide was falling, raised little waves on its surface and made Mal- 
colm think of the herring. Somehow, as he went up to the door, 
a new chapter of his life seemed about to commence. 
__ The servant who took the note, returned immediately, and 
showed him up to the study, a large back room, looking over a 
good-sized garden, with stables on one side. There Lenorme sat 
at his easel. 

“Ah!” he said, “I’m glad to see that wild animal has not 


quite torn you to pieces. Take a chair. What on earth made 


you bring such an incarnate fury to London?” 

“‘T see well enough now, sir, she’s not exactly the one for 
London use, but if you had once ridden her, you would never 
quite enjoy another between your knees.” 

“‘She’s such an infernal brute !” 

“You can’t say too ill of her. But I fancy a gaol chaplain 
sometimes takes the most interest in the worst villain under his 
charge. I should be a proud man to make “er fit to live with 
decent people.” 

“I’m afraid she'll be too much for you. At last you'll have to 
part with her, I fear.’ 


“If she had bitten you as often as she has me, sir, you wouldn’t 


part with her. Besides, it would be wrong to sell her. She would 
only be worse with anyone else. But, indeed, though you will 
hardly believe it, she is better than she was.” 

“Then what must she have been!” 

“You may well say that, sir!” 

“‘ Here your mistress tells me you want my assistance in choos- 
ing another horse.” 

“‘ Yes, sir—to attend upon her in London.” 

“JT don’t profess to be knowing in horses: what made you 
think of me?” 

‘I saw how you sat your own horse, sir, and I fee you say 
you bought him out of a butterman’s cart, and treated him like a 
human being: that was enough for me, sir. I’ve long had the 
notion that the beasts, poor things, have a half-sleeping, halt- 
waking human soul in them, and it was a great pleasure to hear 
you say something of the same sort. ‘That gentleman,’ I said 
to myself, ‘—he and I would understand one another.’ ” 

“T am glad you think so,” said Lenorme, with entire courtesy. 
—It was not merely that the very doubtful recognition at his 


baat. 


SETS 
eng te, 


PAINTER AND GROOM. | 89 


profession by society. had tended to keep him clear of his pre- 
judices, but both as a painter and a man he found the young 
fellow exceedingly attractive ;—as a painter from the rare com- 
bination of such strength with such beauty, and as a man froma . 
certain yet rarer clarity of nature which to the vulgar observer 
seems fatuity until he has to encounter it in action, when the con 
trast is like meeting a thunderbolt. Naturally the dishonest takes 
the honest for a fool. Beyond his understanding, he imagines 
him beneath it. But Lenorme, although so much more a man of 
the world, was able in a measure to look into Malcolm and appre- 
ciate him. His nature and his art combined in enabling him to 
do this. 

‘Vou see, sir,” Malcolm went on, encouraged by the simplicity 


of Lenorme’s manner, ‘“‘if they were nothing like us, how should 
y 8 ) 


we be able to get on with them at all, teach them anything, or 
come a hair nearer them, do what we might? For all her wicked- 
ness I firmly believe Kelpie has a sort of regard for me—I won't 
call it affection, but perhaps it comes as near that as may be 
possible in the time to one of her temper.” 

‘“¢ Now I hope you will permit me, Mr MacPhail,” said Lenorme, 
who had been paying more attention to Malcolm than to his 
woras, ‘‘to give a violent wrench to the conversation, and turn it 
upon yourself. You can’t be surprised, and I hope you will not 
be annoyed, if I say you strike one as not altogether like your 
calling. No London groom I have ever spoken to, in the least 
resembles you? How is it?” 

“‘T hope you don’t mean to imply, sir, that I don’t know my 
business,” returned Malcolm, laughing. ; 

* Anything but that. It were nearer the thing to say, that for 
all I know you may understand mine as well.” 

“‘T wish I did, sir. Except the pictures at Lossie House and 
those in Portland Place, I’ve never seen one in my life. About 
most of them I must say I find it hard to imagine what better 
the world is for them. Mr Graham says that no work that 
doesn’t tend to make the world better makes it richer. If he 
were a heathen, he says, he would build a temple to Ses, the 
sister of Psyche.” 

*“ Ses P—I don’t remember her,” said Lenorme. 

“ The moth, sir ;—‘the moth and the rust,’ you know.” 

“Ves, yes; now I know! Capital! Only more things may ~ 
tend to make the world better than some people think.—Who 
is this Mr Graham of yours? He must be no common man. 

“You are right there, sir; there is not another like him in the 
whole world, I believe.” 


90 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


_.__ And thereupon Malcolm set himself to give the painter an 
idea of the schoolmaster. | 

When they had talked about him for a little while, 

“Well, all this accounts for your being a scholar,” said 
Lenorme ; ‘“ but——” 

“Tam little enough of that, sir,” interrupted Malcolm. “Any 
Scotch boy that likes to learn finds the way open to him.” 

i “T am aware of that. But were you really reading Epictetus 
_ when we left you in the park this morning?” 

“Yes, sir: why not?” 

‘In the original ? ” 

“Yes, sir; but not very readily. I am a poor Greek scholar, 
But my copy has a rough Latin translation on the opposite page, 
and that helps me out. It’s not difficult. You would think 
nothing of it if it had been Cornelius Nepos, or Cordery’s 
Colloquies. It’s only a better, not a more difficult book. 

“T don’t know about that. It’s not every one who can read 
Greek that can understand Epictetus. ‘Tell me what you have 
learned from him?” | 

“That would be hard to do. A man is very ready to forget 
how he came first to think of the things he loves best. You see 


_ they are as much a necessity of your being as they ate of the 


man’s who thought them first. I can no more do without the 
truth than Plato. It is as much my needful food and as fully 
mine to possess as his. His having it, Mr Graham says, was for 
my sake as well as his own.—It’s just like what Sir Thomas 
Browne says about the faces of those we love—that we cannot 
retain the idea of them because they are ourselves. Those that 
help the world must be served like their master and a good deal 
forgotten, I fancy. Of course they don’t mind it—I remember 
_another passage I think says something to the same purpose— 
one in Epictetus himself,” continued Malcolm, drawing the little 
book from his pocket and turning over the leaves, while Lenorme 
sat waiting, wondering, and careful not to interrupt him. . 
_ He turned to the forty-second chapter, and began to read 
from the Greek. 

. “I’ve forgotten all the Greek I ever had,” said Lenorme. 

Then Malcolm turned to the opposite page and began to read 
_ the Latin. 

“Tut ! tut!” said Lenorme, “I can’t follow your Scotch pro- 
nunciation.” 

“ That's a pity,” said Malcolm: “it’s the right way.” 

“don’t doubt it. You Scotch are always in the right! | 
But just read it off in English—will you?” 


PAINTER AND GROOM. Mer a 


Thus adjured, Malcolm read slowly and with choice of word - 
and phrase :— 

““« And if any one shall say unto thee, that thou knowest 
nothing, notwithstanding thou must not be vexed: then know 
thou that thou hast begun thy work.’—That is,” explained 
Malcolm, “when you keep silence about principles in the pre- 
sence of those that are incapable of understanding them.—‘ For 
the sheep also do not manifest to the shepherds how much they 
have eaten, by producing fodder; but, inwardly digesting their 
food, they produce outwardly wool and milk. And thou there- 
fore set not forth principles before the unthinking, but the 
actions that result from the digestion of them.’—That last is not 
quite literal, but I think it’s about right,” concluded Malcolm, 
putting the book again in the breast pocket of his silver-buttoned 
coat. ‘*—That’s the passage I thought of, but I see now it 
won't apply. He speaks of not saying what you know; I spoke 
of forgetting where you got it.” 

‘“Come now,” said Lenorme, growing more and more inter- 
ested in his new acquaintance, “‘ tell me something about your 
life. Account for yourselfi—If you will make a friendship of it, 
you must do that.” 

TY will, sir,” said Malcolm, and with the word began to tell 
him most things he could think of as bearing upon his mental 
history up to and after the time also when his birth was 
disclosed to him. In omitting that disclosure he believed he 
had without it quite accounted for himself. Through the whole 
recital he dwelt chiefly on the lessons and influences of the 
schoolmaster. 

“Well, I must admit,” said Lenorme when he had ended, 
“that you are no longer unintelligible, not to say incredible. 
You have had a splendid education, in which I hope you give 
the herring and Kelpie their due share.” | 

He sat ‘silently regarding him for a few moments. Then he 
said : ; 

“Il tell you what now: if I help you to buy a horse, you 
must help me to paint a picture.” 

“1 don’t know how I’m to do that,” said Malcolm, “ but if 
you do, that’s enough. I shall only be too happy to do what I 
can.” A 
“Then [ll tell you.—But you’re not to tell azybody: it’s a 
secret.—I have discovered that there is no suitable portrait of 
Lady Lossie’s father. It is a great pity. His brother and his 
father and grandfather are all in Portland Place, in Highland 
costume, as chiefs of their clan ; his place only is vacant. Lady 


Noy THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


Lossie, however, has in her possession one or two miniatures of 
him, which, although badly painted, I should think may give the 
outlines of his face and head with tolerable correctness. From 
_ the portraits of his predecessors, and from Lady Lossie herself, 
I gain some knowledge of what is common to the family ; and 
from all together I hope to gather and paint what will be recog- 
nizable by her as a likeness of her father—which afterwards 
I hope to better by her remarks. ‘These remarks I hope to get 
first from her feelings unadulterated by criticism, through the 
surprise of coming upon the picture suddenly; afterwards from 
her judgment at its leisure. Now I remember seeing you wait 
at table—the first time I saw you—in the Highland dress: will 
you come to me so dressed, and let me paint from you?” 
 “YPll do better than that, sir,” cried Malcolm, eagerly. “T’ll 
get up from Lossie House my lord’s very dress that he wore 
when he went to court—his jewelled dirk, and Andrew Ferrara 
broadsword with the hilt of real silver. That'll greatly help your 
design upon my lady, for he dressed up in them all. more than 
once just to please her.” 

“Thank you,” said Lenorme very heartily; “that will be of 
immense advantage. Write at once.” 

“T will, sir.—Only I’m a bigger man than my—late master, 
and you must mind that.” 

“T’ll see to it. You get the clothes, and all the rest of the 
accoutrements—rich with barbaric gems and gold, and - 

“Neither gems nor gold, sir ;—honest Scotch cairngorms and 
plain silver,” said Malcolm. 

“T only quoted Milton,” returned Lenorme. 

“Then you should have quoted correctly, sir.—‘Showers on 
her kings barbaric pearl and gold,’—that’s the line, and you can’t 
better it. Mr Graham always pulled me up if I didn’t quote 
correctly.— By-the-bye, sir, some say it’s Aings barbaric, but there’s 
barbaric gold in Virgil.” 

“T dare say you are right,” said Lenorme. “But you're far 
too learned for me.” 

“Don’t make game of me, sir. I know two or three books - 
pretty well, and when I get a chance I can’t help talking about 
them. It’s so seldom now I can get a mouthful of Milton. 
There’s no cave here to go into, and roll the mimic thunder in 
your mouth. If the people here heard me reading loud out, 
they would call me mad. It’s a mercy in this London, if a 
working-man get loneliness enough to say his prayers in!” 

“You do say your prayers then?” asked Lenorme, looking at 
him curiously. 


PAINTER AND GROOM. 93 

“Yes: don’t you, sir? You had so much sense about the 
beasts I thought you must be a man that said his prayers.” 

Lenorme was silent. He was not altogether innocent of say- 
ing prayers; -but of late years it had grown a more formal and ~ 
gradually a rarer thing. One reason of this was that it had 
never come into his head that God cared about pictures, or had 
the slightest interest whether he painted well or ill. If a man’s 
earnest calling, to which of necessity the greater part of his 
thought is given, is altogether dissociated in his mind from his 
religion, it is not wonderful that his prayers should by degrees 
wither and die. The question is whether they ever had much 
vitality. But one mighty negative was yet true of Lenorme: he 
had not got in his head, still less had he ever cherished in his 
heart, the thought that there was anything fine in disbelieving in 
a God, or anything contemptible in imagining communication 
with a being of grander essence than himself. That in which ~ 
Socrates rejoiced with exultant humility, many a youth now-a- 
days thinks himself a fine fellow for casting from him with 
ignorant scorn. 

A true conception of the conversation above recorded can 
hardly be had except my reader will take the trouble to imagine 
the contrast between the Scotch accent and inflection, the large- 
ness and prolongation of vowel sounds, and, above all, the 
Scotch tone of Malcolm, and the pure, clear articulation, and 
decided utterance of the perfect London speech of Lenorme. 
It was something like the difference between the blank verse of 
Young and the prose of Burke. 

The silence endured so long that Malcolm began to fear he 
had hurt his new friend, and thought it better to take his leave. 

“Tl go and write to Mrs Courthope—that’ s the housekeeper, 
to-night, to send up the things at once. When would it be con- 
venient for you to go and look at some horses with me, Mr 
Lenorme ?” he said. 

“T shall be at home all to-morrow,” answered the painter, 
“and ready to go with you any time you like to come for me.” 

As he spoke he held out his hand, and they parted like old 
friends. 


Bah 


94 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 
A LADY, 


THE next morning, Malcolm took Kelpie into the park, and gave 
her a good breathing. He had thought to jump the rails, and let 
her have her head, but he found there were too many park- 
keepers and police about: he saw. he could do little for her that 
way. He was turning home with her again when one of her evil 
fits came upon her, this time taking its first form in a sudden 
stiffening of every muscle: she stood stock-still with flaming eyes. 
I suspect we human beings know but little of the fierceness with 
which the vortices of passion rage in the more purely animal 
natures. ‘This beginning he knew well would end in a wild 
paroxysm of rearing and plunging. Hehad more than once tried 
the exorcism of patience, sitting sedate upon her. back until she 
chose to move ; but on these occasions the tempest that followed 
had been of the very worst description; so that he had concluded 
it better to bring on the crisis, thereby sure at least to save time; 
and after he had adopted this mode with her, attacks of the sort, 
if no less violent, had certainly become fewer. The moment 
therefore that symptoms of an approaching fit showed themselves, 
he used his spiked heels with vigour. Upon this occasion he had 
a stiff tussle with her, but as usual gained the victory, and was 
riding slowly along the Row, Kelpie tossing up now her head now 
her heels in indignant protest against obedience in general and 
enforced obedience in particular, when a lady on horseback, who 
had come galloping from the opposite direction, with her groom 
behind her, pulled up, and. lifted her hand with imperative grace: 
she had seen something of what had been going on. Malcolm 
reined in. But Kelpie, after her nature, was now as unwilling to 
stop as she had been before to proceed, and the fight began 
again, with some difference of movement and aspect, but the 
spurs once more playing a free part. 

‘Man! man!” cried the lady, in most musical reproof, “do 
you know what you are about?” 

“It would be a bad job for her and me too if I did not, my 
lady,” said Malcolm, whom her appearance and manner impressed 
with a conviction of rank, and as he spoke he smiled in the midst 
of the struggle: he seldom got angry with Kelpie. But the 
smile instead of taking from the apparent roughness of his speech, 
only made his conduct appear u_ the lady’s eyes more cruel. 


A LADY. 95 

“‘ How is it possible you can treat the poor animal so unkindly 
—and in cold blood too?” she said, and an indescribable tone 
of pleading ran through the rebuke. ‘ Why, her poor sides are 
actually———”_ A shudder, and look of personal distress completed 
the sentence. 

“You don’t know what she is, my lady, or you would not 
think it necessary to intercede for her.” 

“ But if she is naughty, is that any reason why you should be 
crue.” | 

- “No, my lady ; but it is the best reason why I should try to 
make her good.” 

“You will never make her good that way.” 

‘Improvement gives ground for hope,” said Malcolm. 

“But you must not treat a poor dumb animal as you would a 
responsible human being.” 

“She’s not so very poor, my lady. She has all she wants, and 
does nothing to earn it—nothing to speak of, and nothing at all 
with good will. For her dumbness, that’s a mercy. If she could 
speak she wouldn't be fit to live among decent people. But for 
that matter, if some one hadn't taken her in hand, dumb as she 
is, she would have been shot long ago.” 

‘¢ Better that than live with such usage.” ; 

“IT don’t think she would agree with you, my lady. My fear 
is that, for as cruel as it looks to your ladyship, take it altogether, 
she enjoys the fight. In any case, I am certain she has more 
regard for me than any other being in the universe.” 

* Who caz have any regard for you,” said the lady very gently, 
in utter mistake of his meaning, “if you have no command of 
your temper? You must learn to rule yourself first.” 

“ That’s true, my lady ; and so long as my mare is not able to 
be a law to herself, I must be a law to her too.” 

“But have you never heard of the law of kindness? You 
could do so much more without the severity.” 

“ With some natures I grant you, my lady, but not with such 
‘as she. Horse or man—they never show kindness till they have 
learned fear. Kelpie would have torn me to pieces before now 
if I had taken your way with her. But except I can do a great 
deal more with her yet she will be nothing better than a natural 
brute beast made to be taken and destroyed.” 

“The Bible again !” murmured the lady to herself. ‘‘ Of how 
much cruelty has not that book to bear the blame !” 

All this time Kelpie was trying hard to get at the lady’s horse 
to bite him. But she did not see that. She was much too 
distressed—and was growing more and more so. 


96 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 

“I wish you would let my groom try her,” she said, after a 
pitiful pause. “ He’s an older and more experienced man than 
you. He has children. He would show you what can be done 
by gentleness.” 

From Malcolm’s words she had scarcely gathered even a false 
meaning—not a glimmer of his nature—not even a suspicion that 
he meant something. To her he was but a handsome, brutal 
young groom. From the world of thought and reasoning that 
lay behind his words, not an echo had reached her. 

_ “Tt would be a great satisfaction to my old Adam to let him 
try her,” said Malcolm. 

“The Bible again !” said the lady to herself. 

“But it would be murder,” he added, “not knowing myself 
what experience he has had.” 

“T see,” said the lady to herself, but loud enough for Malcolm 
to hear, for her tender-heartedness had made her both angry 
and unjust, “ his self-conceit is equal to his cruelty—just what I 
might have expected !” 

With the words she turned her horse’s head and rode away, 
leaving a lump in Malcolm’s throat. 

“T wuss fowk”—he still spoke in Scotch in his own chamber— 
‘wad du as they’re tell’t, an’ no jeedge ane anither. I’m sure it’s 
Kelpie’s best chance o’ salvation ’at I gang on wi’ her. Stable- 
men wad ha’e had her brocken doon a’thegither by this time, an’ 
life wad ha’e had little relish left.” 

It added hugely to the bitterness of being thus rebuked, that 
he had never in his life seen such a radiance of beauty’s softest 
light as shone from the face and form of the reproving angel.— 
“Only she canna be an angel,” he said to himself, *‘ or she wad 
ha’e ken’t better.” 

She was young—not more than twenty, tall and graceful, with 
a touch of the matronly, which she must have had even in child- 
hood, for it belonged to her—so staid, so stately was she in all 
her grace. With her brown hair, her lily complexion, her blue- 
gray eyes, she was all of the moonlight and its shadows—even 
now, in the early morning, and angry. Her nose was so nearly 
perfect that one never thought of it. Her mouth was rather 
large, but had gained in value of shape, and in the expression of 
_ indwelling sweetness, with every line that carried it beyond the 


measure of smallness. Most little mouths are pretty, some even | 


lovely, but not one have I seen beautiful. Her forehead was the 
sweetest of halfmoons. Of those who knew her best some 
absolutely believed that a radiance resembling moonlight 
shimmered from its precious expanse. “Be ye angry and sin 


A LADY. 97 


not,” had always been a puzzle to Malcolm, who had, as I have 
said, inherited a certain Celtic fierceness ; but now, even while 
he knew himself the object of the anger, he understood the word. 
It tried him sorely, however, that such gentleness and beauty 
should be unreasonable. Could it be that he should never 
have a chance of convincing her how mistaken she was concern- 
ing his treatment of Kelpie! What a celestial rosy red her face 
had glowed! and what summer lightnings had flashed up in her 
eyes, as if they had been the horizons of heavenly worlds up 
which flew the dreams that broke from the brain of a young 
sleeping goddess, to make the worlds glad also in the night of 
their slumber. 

Something like this Malcolm felt: whoever saw her must feel 
as he had never felt before. He gazed after her long and earnestly. 

“Tt’s an awfu’ thing to ha’e a wuman like that angert at ye!” 
he said to himself when at length sne had disappeared, “‘—as 
bonny as she is angry! God be praised ’at he kens a’thing, an’ 
’s no angert wi’ ye for the luik o’ a thing! But the wheel may 
come roon’ again—wha kens? Ony gait I s’ mak’ the best o’ 
Kelpie I can.—I won’er gien she kens Leddy Florimel! She’s 
a heap mair boontifw’ like in her beauty nor her. The man micht 
haud ’s ain wi’ an archangel ’at had a wuman like that to the wife 
o ’m.—Hoots ! I'll be wussin’ I had had anither upbringin’, ’at I 
micht ha’ won a step nearer to the hem o’ her garment! an’ that 
wad be to deny him ’at made an’ ordeen’t me. I wull not du 
that. But I maun hae a crack wi’ Maister Graham, anent things 
twa or three, just to haud me straucht, for I’m jist girnin’ at bein’ 
sae regairdit by sic a Revelation. Gien she had been an auld 
wife, I wad ha’e only lauchen: what for ’s that? I doobt I’m no 
muckle mair rizzonable nor hersel’! The thing was this, I fancy: 
it was sae clear she spak frae no ill-natur, only frae pure 
humanity. She’s a gran’ ane yon, only some saft, I doobt.” 

For the lady, she rode away sadly strengthened in her doubts 
whether there could be a God in the world—not because there 
were in it such men as she took Malcolm for, but because such a 
lovely animal had fallen into his hands. 

“It’s a sair thing to be misjeedged,” said Malcolm to himself 
as he put the demoness in her stall; “ but it’s no more than the 
Macker o’’s pits up wi’ ilka hoor o’ the day, an’ says na a word. 
Eh, but God’s unco quaiet! Sae lang as he kens till himsel’ ’at 
he’s a’ richt, he lats fowk think ’at they like—till he has time to 


lat them ken better. Lord, mak’ clean my hert within me, an’ 


syne I'll care little for ony jeedgement but thine.” 


G 


imate 
he 


98 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


CHAPTER XXV. 
THE PSYCHE. 


It was a lovely day, but Florimel would not ride: Malcolm 
must go at once to Mr Lenorme; she would not go out again 
until she could have a choice of horses to follow her. 

“Your Kelpie is all very well in Richmond Park, and I wish 


I were able to ride her myself, Malcolm, but she will never do 


in London.” 

His name sounded sweet on her lips, but somehow to-day, for 
the first time since he saw her first, he felt a strange sense of 
superiority in his protection of her: could it be because he had 
that morning looked unto a higher orb of creation? It mattered 
little to Malcolm’s generous nature that the voice that issued 
therefrom had been one of unjust rebuke. 

“Who knows, my lady,” he answered his mistress, “ but you 
may ride her some day! Give her a bit of sugar every time you 
see her—on your hand, so that she may take it with her lips, 
and not catch your fingers.” 

“You shall show me how,” said Florimel, and gave him a note 
for Mr Lenorme. 

When he came in sight of the river, there, almost opposite the 
painter’s house, lay his own little yacht! He thought of Kelpie 
in the stable, saw Psyche floating like a swan in the reach, made 
two or three long strides, then sought to exhale the pride of 
life in thanksgiving, 

The moment his arrival was announced to Lenorme, he came 
down and went with him, and in an hour or two they had found 
very much the sort of horse they wanted. Malcolm took him 
home for trial, and Florimel was pleased with him. The earl’s 
opinion was not to be had, for he had hurt his shoulder when he 
fell from the rearing Kelpie the day before, and was confined to 
his room in Curzon Street. 

In the evening Malcolm put on his yachter’s uniform, and set 
out again for Chelsea. There he took a boat, and crossed the 
river to the yacht, which lay near the other side, in charge of an 
old salt whose acquaintance Blue Peter had made when lying 
below the bridges. | On board he found all tidy and ship-shape. 
He dived into the cabin, lighted a candle, and made some 
measurements: all the little luxuries of the nest, carpets, 
cushions, curtains, and other things, were at Lossie House, hav- 
ing been removed when the Psyche was laid up for the winter: 


i503 
<% Ase 


THE PSYCHE. 99 


he was going to replace them. And he was anxious to see 
whether he could not fulfil a desire he had once heard Florimel 
express to her father—that she had a bed on board, and could: 
sleep there. He found it possible, and had soon contrived a 
berth: even a tiny stateroom was within the limits of con- 
struction. 

Returning to the deck, he was consulting Travers about a 
carpenter, when, to his astonishment, he saw young Davy, the 
boy he had brought from Duff Harbour, and whom he under- 
stood to have gone back with Blue Peter, gazing at him from 
before the mast. 

“Gien ye please, Maister MacPhail,” said Davy, and said no 
more. 

“How on earth do you come to be here, you rascal?” said 
Malcolm. ‘“ Peter was to take you home with him !” 

“‘T garred him think I was gauin’,” answered the boy, scratch- 
Ing his red poll, which glowed in the dusk. 

‘J gave him your wages,” said Malcolm. 

“ Ay, he tauld me that, but I loot them gang an’ gae him the 
slip, an’ wan ashore close ahint yersel’, sir, jist as the smack set 
sau. JI cudna gang ohn hed a word wi’ yersel’, sir, to see 
whether ye wadna lat me bide wi’ ye, sir. I haena muckle wut, 
they tell me, sir, but gien I michtna aye be able to du what ye 
tell’t me to du, I cud aye haud ohn dune what ye tell’t me no to 


; du ? 


The words of the boy pleased Malcolm more than he judged 
it wise to manifest. He looked hard at Davy. ‘There was little 
to be seen in his face except the best and only thing—truth. It 
shone from his round pale-blue eyes; it conquered the self- 
assertion of his unhappy nose; it seemed to glow in every freckle 
of his sunburnt cheeks, as earnestly he returned Malcolm’s gaze. 

“But,” said Malcolm, almost satisfied, “how is this, Travers? 
I never gave you any instructions about the boy.” 

“There’s where it is, sir, answered Travers. “I seed the boy 
aboard before, and when he come aboard again, jest arter you 
left, I never as much as said to myself, It’s all nght. I axed him 
no questions, and he told me no lies.” 

“ Gien ye please, sir,” struck in Davy, “ Maister Trahvers gied 
me my mait, an’ I tuik it, cause I hed no sil’er to buy ony: I 
houp it wasna stealin’, sir. An’ gien ye wad keep me, ye cud 
tak it aff o? my wauges for three days.” 

“ Look here, Davy,” said Malcolm, turning sharp upon him, 
can you swim ?” 

“ Ay can I, sir,—weel that,” answered Davy. 


100 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


ye 


“Jump overboard then, and swim ashore,” said Malcolm, _ 


pointing to the Chelsea bank. 

The boy made two strides to the larboard gunwale, and would 
have been over the next instant, but Malcolm caught him by the 
shoulder. 

“ That'll do, Davy; I'll give you a chance, Davy,” he said, 
“and if I get a good account of you from Travers, I'll rig you out 
like myself here.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Davy. ‘Is’ du what I can to please 
ye, sir. An’ gien ye wad sen’ my wauges hame to my mither, sir, 
ye wad ken ’at I cudna be gauin’ stravaguin’, and drinkin’, whan 
yer back was turn’t.” 

“Well, I’ll write to your mother, and see what she says,” said 
Malcolm. ‘ Now I want to tell you, both of you, that this yacht 
belongs to the Marchioness of Lossie, and I have the command 
of her, and I must have everything on board ship-shape, and as 
clean, Travers, as if she were a seventy-four. If there’s the head 
of a nail visible, it must be as bright as silver. And everything 
must be at the word. ‘The least hesitation, and I have done 
with that man. If Davy here had grumbled one mouthful, even 
on his way overboard, I wouldn’t have kept him.” 

He then arranged that Travers was to go home that night, and 
bring with him the next morning an old carpenter friend of his. 
He would himself be down by seven o’clock :o set him to work. 


The result was that, before a fortnight was over, he had the © 
cabin thoroughly fitted up, with all the luxuries it had formerly - 


possessed, and as many more as he could think of—to compen- 
sate for the loss of the space occupied by the daintiest little 
state-room—a very jewel box for softness and richness and com- 
fort. In the cabin, amongst the rest of his additions, he had 
fixed in a corner a set of tiny bookshelves, and filled them with 
what books he knew his sister liked, and some that he liked for 
her. It was not probable she would read in them much, he said 
to himself, but they wouldn’t make the boat heel, and who could 
tell when a drop of celestial nepenthe might ooze from one or 
another of them! So there they stood, in their lovely colours, 
of morocco, russia, calf or vellum—types of the infinite rest in 
the midst of the ever restless—the types for ever tossed, but the 
rest remaining. 


By that time also he had arranged with Travers and Davy a. 


code of signals. 

The day after Malcolm had his new hack, he rode him behind 
his mistress in the park, and nothing could be more decorous 
than the behaviour of both horse and groom. It was early, and 


ae. a 


THE SCHOOLMASTER. 1Or 


In Rotten Row, to his delight, they met the lady of rebuke. She 
and Florimel pulled up simultaneously, greeted, and had a little 
talk. When they parted, and the lady came to pass Malcolm, 
whom she had not suspected, sitting a civilised horse in all 
serenity behind his mistress, she cast a quick second glance at 
him, and her fair face flushed with the red: reflex of yester- 
day’s anger. He expected her to turn at once and com- 
plain of him to her mistress, but to his disappointment, she 
rode on. 

When they left the park, Florimel went down Constitution 
Hill, and turning westward, rode to Chelsea. As they 
approached Mr Lenorme’s house, she stopped and said to 
Malcolm— 

“J am going to run in and thank Mr Lenorme for the trouble 
he has been at about the horse. Which is the house?” 

She pulled up at the gate. Malcolm dismounted, but before 
he could get near to assist her, she was already halfway up the 
walk—flying, and he was but in time to catch the rein of Abbot, 
already moving off, curious to know whether he was actually 
trusted alone. In about five minutes she came again, glancing 
about her all ways but behind, with a scared look, Malcolm 
thought. But she walked more slowly and statelily than usual 
down the path. In a moment Malcolm had her in the saddle, 
and she cantered away—past the hospital into Sloane Street, and 
across the park home. He said to himself, “She knows the 
way, : 


CHAPTER XXVLIL 
THE SCHOOLMASTER. 


ALEXANDER GRAHAM, the schoolmaster, was the son of a grieve, 
or farm-overseer, in the North of Scotland. By straining every 
nerve, his parents had succeeded in giving him a university edu- 
cation, the narrowness of whose scope was possibly favourable 
to the development of what genius, rare and shy, might lurk 
among the students. He had laboured well, and had gathered 
a good deal from books and lectures, but far more from the mines 
they guided him to discover in his own nature. In common with 
so many Scotch parents, his had cherished the most wretched as 
well as hopeless of all ambitions, seeing it presumes to work in 


102 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


a region into which zo ambition can enter—I mean that of seeing 
their son a clergyman. In presbyter, curate, bishop, or cardinal, 
ambition can fare but as that of the creeping thing to build its nest 
in the topmost boughs of the cedar. Worse than that ; my simile 
is a poor one ; for the moment a thought of ambition is cherished, 
that moment the man is out of the kingdom. Their son with 
already a few glimmering insights, which had not yet begun to 
interfere with his acceptance of the doctrines of his church, made 
no opposition to their wish, but having qualified himself to the 
satisfaction of his superiors, at length ascended the pulpit to 
preach his first sermon. : 

The custom of the time as to preaching was a sort of com- 
promise between reading a sermon and speaking extempore, a 
mode morally as well as artistically false: the preacher learned 
his sermon by rote, and repeated it—as much like the man he 
therein was not, and as little like the parrot he was, as he could. 
It is no wonder, in such an attempt, either that memory should 
fail a shy man, or assurance an honest man. In Mr Graham’s 
case it was probably the former: the practice was universal, and 
he could hardly yet have begun to question it, so as to have had 
any conscience of evil. Blessedly, however, for his dawning 
truth and well-being, he failed—failed utterly—pitifully. His 
tongue clave to the roof of his mouth ; his lips moved, but shaped 
no sound; a deathly dew bathed his forehead; his knees 
shook; and he sank at last to the bottom of the chamber of 
his torture, whence, while his mother wept below, and his father 
clenched hands of despair beneath the tails of his Sunday coat, 
he was half led, half dragged down the steps by the bedral, 
shrunken together like one caught in a shameful deed, and with 
the ghastly look of him who has but just revived from the faint 
supervening on the agonies of the rack. Home they crept 
together, speechless and hopeless all three, to be thenceforth the 
contempt and not the envy of their fellow-parishioners. For if 
the vulgar feeling towards the home-born prophet is supercilious- 
ness, what must the sentence upon failure be in ungenerous natures, 
to which every downfall of another is an uplifting of themselves ! 
But Mr Graham’s worth had gained him friends in the presbytery, 
and he was that same week appointed to the vacant school of 
another parish. 

There it was not long before he made the acquaintance of 
Griselda Campbell, who was governess in the great house of the 
neighbourhood, and a love, not the less true that it was hopeless 
from the first, soon began to consume the chagrin of his failure, 
and substitute for it a more elevating sorrow :—for how could an 


THE SCHOOLMASTER. 103 


embodied failure, to offer whose miserable self would be an 
insult, dare speak of love to one before whom his whole being 
sank worshipping. Silence was the sole armour of his privilege. 
So long as he was silent, the terrible arrow would never part 
from the bow of those sweet lips ; he might love on, love ever, 
nor be grudged the bliss of such visions as to him, seated on its 
outer steps, might come from any chance opening of the heavenly 
gate. And Miss Campbell thought of him more kindly than he 
_knew. SBut before long she accepted the offered situation of 
governess to Lady Annabel, the only child of the late marquis’s 
elder brother, at that time himself marquis, and removed to 
Lossie House. There the late marquis fell in love with her, 
and persuaded her to a secret marriage. ‘There also she became, 
in the absence of her husband, the mother of Malcolm. But 
the marquis of the time, jealous for the succession of his daughter, 
and fearing his brother might yet marry the mother of his child, 
contrived, with the assistance of the midwife, to remove the 
infant and persuade the mother that he was dead, and also to 
persuade his brother of the death of both mother and child ; 
after which, imagining herself wilfully deserted by her husband, 
yet determined to endure shame rather than break the promise 
of secrecy she had given him, the poor lady accepted the hos- 
pitality of her distant relative, Miss Horn, and continued with 
her till she died. 

When he learned where she had gone, Mr Graham seized a 
chance of change to Portlossie that occurred soon after, and 
when she became her cousin’s guest, went to see her, was kindly 
received, and for twenty years lived in friendly relations with the 
two. It was not until after her death that he came to know the 
strange fact that the object of his calm unalterable devotion had 
_ been a wife all those years, and was the mother of his favourite 
pupil. About the same time he was dismissed from the school 
on the charge of heretical teaching, founded on certain religious 
conversations he had had with some of the fisher-people who 
sought his advice ; and thereupon he had left the place, and gone 
to London, knowing it would be next to impossible to find or 
gather another school in Scotland after being thus branded. In 
London he hoped, one way or another, to avoid dying of cold 
or hunger, or in debt: that was very nearly the limit of his 
earthly ambition. 

He had just one acquaintance in the whole mighty city, and 
no more. Him he had known in the days of his sojourn at 
King’s College, where he had grown with him from bejan to 
magistrand. He was the son of a linen-draper in Aberdeen, and 


oy 


104 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


was a decent, good humoured fellow, who, if he had not dis- 
tinguished, had never disgraced himself. His father, having 
somewhat influential business relations, and finding in him no 
leanings to a profession, bespoke the good offices of a certain 
large retail house in London, and sent him thither to learn the 
business. The result was that he had married a daughter of 
one of the partners, and become a partner himself. His old 
friend wrote to him at his shop in Oxford Street, and then went 
to see him at his house in Haverstock Hill. 


He was shown into the library—in which were two mahogany : 


cases with plate-glass doors, full of books, well cared for as to 


clothing and condition, and perfectly placid, as if never disturbed - 


from one week’s end to another. In a minute Mr Marshal 
entered—so changed that he could never have recognized him 
—still, however, a kind-hearted, genial man. He received his 
classfellow cordially and respectfully—referred merrily to old 
times, and begged to know how he was getting on, asked 
whether he had come to London with any special object, and 
invited him to dine with them on Sunday. He accepted the 
invitation, met him, according to agreement, at a certain chapel 
in Kentish Town, of which he was a deacon, and walked home 
with him and his wife. 

They had but one of their family at home—the youngest son, 
whom his father was having educated for the dissenting ministry, 
in the full conviction that he was doing not a little for the truth, 
and justifying its cause before men, by devoting to its service 
the son of a man of standing and worldly means, whom he might 
have easily placed in a position to makemoney. ‘The youth was 


_ of simple character and good inclination—ready to do what he 


saw to be right, but slow in putting to the question anything that 
interfered with his notions of laudable ambition, or justifiable 
self-interest. He was attending lectures at a dissenting college 
in the neighbourhood, for his father feared Oxford or Cambridge, 
not for his morals, but his opinions in regard to church and 
state. 

The schoolmaster spent a few days in the house. His friend 
was generally in town, and his wife, regarding him as very primi- 
tive and hardly fit for what she counted saciety—the class, 
namely, that she herself represented, was patronising and con- 
descending ; but the young fellow, finding, to his surprise, that 
he knew a great deal more about his studies than he did himself, 
was first somewhat attracted and then somewhat influenced by 
him, so that at length an intimacy tending to friendship arose 
between them. 


THE PREACHER. 10s 


_- Mr Graham was not a little shocked to discover that his ideas 
in respect of the preacher’s calling were of a very worldly. kind. 
The notions of this fledgling of dissent differed from those of a 
clergyman of the same stamp in this :—the latter regards the 
church as a society with accumulated property for the use of its 
officers ; the former regarded it as a community of communities, 
each possessing a preaching house which ought to be made 
commercially successful. Saving influences must emanate from 
it of course—but dissenting saving influences. 

His mother was a partisan to a hideous extent. To hear her 
talk you would have thought she imagined the apostles the first 
dissenters, and that the main duty of every Christian soul was 

to battle for the victory of Congregationalism over Episcopacy, 
and Voluntaryism over State Endowment. Her every mode of 
thinking and acting was of a levelling common-place. With her, 
love was liking, duty something unpleasant—generally to other 
people, and kindness patronage. But she was just in money- 
matters, and her son too had every intention of being worthy of 
his hire, though wherein lay the value of the labour with which 
he thought to counterpoise that hire, it were hard to say. 


CHAPTER XXVIL. 
THE PREACHER. 


THE sermon Mr Graham heard at the chapel that Sunday 
morning in Kentish Town was not of an elevating, therefore not 
of a strengthening description. The pulpit was at that time in 
offer to the highest bidder—in orthodoxy, that is, combined with — 
popular talent. ‘The first object of the chapel’s existence—I do 
not say in the minds of those who built it, for it was an old 
place, but certainly in the minds of those who now directed its 
affairs—was not to save its present congregation, but to gather a 
larger—ultimately that they might be saved, let us hope, but 
primarily that the drain upon the purses of those who were 
responsible for its rent and other outlays, might be lessened. 
Mr Masquar, therefore, to whom the post was a desirable one, 
had been mainly anxious that morning to prove his orthodoxy, 
and so commend his services. Not that in those days one heard 
so much of the dangers of heterodoxy: that monster was as yet 
but growling far off in the jungles of Germany; but certain 


106 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


whispers had been abroad concerning the preacher which he > 


thought desirable to hush, especially as they were founded in 
truth. He had tested the power of heterodoxy to attract atten- 
tion, but having found that the attention it did attract was not of 
a kind favourable to his wishes, had so skilfully remodelled his 
theories that, although to his former friends he declared them in 
substance unaltered, it was impossible any longer to distinguish 
them from the most uncompromising orthodoxy; and his sermon 
of that morning had tended neither to the love of God, the love 
of man, nor a hungering after righteousness—its aim being to 
disprove the reported heterodoxy of Jacob Masquar. 

As they walked home, Mrs Marshal, addressing her husband 
in a tone of conjugal disapproval, said, with more force than 
delicacy, . 

“The pulpit is not the place to give a man to wash his dirty 
linen in.” . 

“Well, you see, my love,” answered her husband in a tone of 
apology, ‘‘ people won’t submit to be told their duty by mere 
students, and just at present there seems nobody else to be had. 
There’s none in the market but old stagers and young colts—eh, 
Fred? But Mr Masquar is at least a man of experience.” 

“Of more than enough, perhaps,” suggested his wife. ‘‘ And 
the young ones must have their chance, else how are they to 
~learnP You should have given the principal a hint. It is a 
most desirable thing that Frederick should preach a little oftener.” 

“ They have it in turn, and it wouldn’t do to favour one more 
than another.” 

“He could hand his guinea, or whatever they gave him, to 


_ the one whose turn it ought to have been, and that would set it 


all right.” 

At this point the silk-mercer, fearing that the dominie, as he 
called him, was silently disapproving, and willing therefore to 
change the subject, turned to him and said, 

“Why shouldn’t you give us a sermon, Graham?” 

The schoolmaster laughed. 

“ Did you never hear,” he said, “how I fell like Dagon on the 
threshold of the church, and have lain there ever since.” 

“What has that to do with it?” returned his friend, sorry that 
his forgetfulness should have caused a painful recollection. 
“That is ages ago, when you were little more than a boy. 
Seriously,” he added, chiefly to cover his little indiscretion, 
_ “will you preach for us the Sunday after next?” 

Deacons generally ask a man to preach for them, 
“No,” said Mr Graham. 


ies.) aoe eas 


THE PREACHER. 107 


But even as he said it, a something began to move in his 
heart—a something half of jealousy for God, half of pity for 
poor souls buffeted by such winds as had that morning been 
roaring, chaff-laden, about the church, while the grain fell all to 
the bottom of the pulpit. Something burned in him: was 
it the word that was as a fire in his bones, or was it a mere lust 
of talk? He thought for a moment. 

“ Have you any gatherings between Sundays ?” he asked. 

“Yes; every Wednesday evening,” replied Mr Marshal. 
“And if you won’t preach on Sunday, we shall. announce to- 
night that next Wednesday a clergyman of the Church of Scot- 
land will address the prayer meeting.” | 

He was glad to get out of it so, for he was uneasy about his 
friend, both as to his nerve, which might fail him, and his Scotch 
oddities, which would not. 

“That would be hardly true,” said Mr Graham, “seeing I 
never got beyond a licence.” 

““ Nobody here knows the difference between a licentiate and 
a placed minister; and if they did they would not care a straw. 
So we'll just say clergyman.” 

“But I won't have it announced in any terms. Leave that 
alone, and I will try to speak at the prayer meeting.” 

“It won’t be in the least worth your while except we announce 
it. You won't have a soul to hear you but the pew-openers, the 
woman that cleans the chapel, Mrs Marshal’s washerwoman, 
and the old greengrocer we buy our vegetables from. We must 
really announce it.” 

“Then I won’t do it. Just tell me—what would our Lord 
have said to Peter or John if they had told Him that they had 
been to synagogue and had been asked to speak, but had de- 
clined because there were only the pew-openers, the chapel- 
cleaner, a washerwoman, and a greengrocer present ?” 

“T said it only for your sake, Graham; you needn’t take me 
up so sharply.” 

“And ra-a-ther irreverently—don’t you think—excuse me, 
sir?” said Mrs Marshal very softly. But the very softness had a 
kind of jelly-fish sting in it. 

“TY think,” rejoined the schoolmaster, indirectly replying, 
‘we must be careful to show our reverence in a manner pleasing 
to our Lord. Now I cannot discover that he cares for any 
reverences but the shaping of our ways after his; and if you 
will show me a single instance of respect of persons in our Lord, 
I will press my petition no iarther to be allowed to speak a 
word to your pew-openers, washerwoman, and greengrocer.” 


108 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


His entertainers were silent—the gentleman in the conscious- 
ness of deserved rebuke, the lady in offence. 

Just then the latter bethought herself that their guest, belong- 
ing to the Scotch Church, was, if no Episcopalian, yet no dis- 
senter, and that seemed to clear up to her the spirit of his 
disapproval. ; 

. © By all means, Mr Marshal,” she said, “ let your friend speak 
on the Wednesday evening. It would not be to his advantage 
to have it said that he occupied a dissenting pulpit. It will not 
be nearly such an exertion either; and if he is unaccustomed to 
speak to large congregations, he will find himself more comfort- 
able with our usual week-evening one.” 

“T have never attempted to speak in public but once,” re- 
joined Mr Graham, “and then I failed.” 

“Ah! that accounts for it,” said his friend’s wife, and the 
simplicity of his confession, while it proved him a simpleton, 
mollified her. 

Thus it came that he spent the days between Sunday and 
Thursday in their house, and so made the acquaintance of 
young Marshal. 

When his mother perceived their growing intimacy, she 
warned her son that their visitor belonged to an unscriptural 
and worldly community, and that notwithstanding his apparent 
guilelessness—deficiency indeed—he might yet use cunning 
arguments to draw him aside from the faith of his fathers. But 
the youth replied that, although in the firmness of his own posi- 
tion as a Congregationalist, he had tried to get the Scotchman 
into a conversation upon church-government, he had failed; the 
man smiled queerly and said nothing. But when a question of 
New Testament criticism arose, he came awake at once, and his 
little blue eyes gleamed like glow-worms. 

“Take care, Frederick,” said his mother. “The Scriptures 
are not to be treated like common books and subjected to 
human criticism.” 

“We must find out what they mean, I suppose, mother,” said 
the youth. . 

“You're to take just the plain meaning that he that runneth 
may read,” answered his mother.— More than that no one has 
any business with. You've got to save your own soul first, and 
then the souls of your neighbours if they will let you; and for 
that reason you must cultivate, not a,spirit of criticism, but the 
talents that attract people to the hearing of the Word. You 
have got a fine voice, and it will improve with judicious use. 
Your father is now on the outlook for a teacher of elocution to 


THE PREACHER. 109 


instruct you how to make the best of it, and speak with power 
on God’s behalf.” : 

When the afternoon of Wednesday began to draw towards the 
evening, there came on a mist, not a London fog, but a low wet 
cloud, which kept slowly condensing into rain; and as the hour 
of meeting drew nigh with the darkness, it grew worse. Mrs 
Marshal had forgotten all about the meeting and the school- 
master: her husband was late, and shé wanted her dinner. At 
twenty minutes past six, she came upon her guest in the hall, 
kneeling on the door-mat, first on one knee, then on the other, 
turning up the feet of his trousers. 

‘Why, Mr Graham,” she said kindly, as he rose and pro- 
ceeded to look for his cotton umbrella, easily discernible in the 
stand among the silk ones of the house, “ you’re never going out 
in a night like this?” 

‘“‘T am going to the prayer-meeting, ma’am,” he said. 

“Nonsense! You'll be wet to the skin before you get half 
way.” 

“JT promised, you may remember, ma’am, to talk a little 
to them.” 

“ You only said so to my husband. You may be very glad, 
seeing it has turned out so wet, that I would not allow him to 
have it announced from the pulpit. There is not the slightest 
occasion for your going. Besides, you have not had your 
dinner.” 

“That’s not of the slightest consequence, ma’am. A bit of 
bread and cheese before I go to bed is all I need to sustain 
nature, and fit me for understanding my proposition in Euclid. 
I have been in the habit, for the last few years, of reading one 
every night before I go to bed.” 

“We dissenters consider a chapter of the Bible the best thing 
to read before going to bed,” said the lady, with a sustained 
voice. 

“TI keep that for the noontide of my perceptions—for mental 
high water,” said the schoolmaster. “Euclid is g-od enough 
after supper. Not that I deny myself a small portion of the 
Word,” he added with a smile, as he proceeded to open the 
door—* when I feel very hungry for it.” 

“There is no one expecting you,” persisted the lady, who 
could ill endure not to have her own way, even when she 
did not care for the matter concerned. ‘ Who will be the 
wiser or the worse if you stay at home?” 

“ My dear lady,” returned the schoolmaster, “ when I have on 
good grounds made up my mind to a thing, I always feel as if J 


116 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


had promised God to do it; and indeed it amounts to the same 
thing very nearly. Such a resolve then is not to be unmade 
except on equally good grounds with those upon which it was 
made. Having resolved to try whether I could not draw a little 
water of refreshment for souls which if not thirsting are but faint- 
ing the more, shall I allow a few drops of rain to prevent me?” 

“¢ Pray don’t let me persuade you against your will,” said his 
hostess, with a stately bend of her neck over her shoulder, as 
she turned into the drawing-room. 

Her guest went out into the rain, asking himself by what. 
theory of the will his hostess could justify such a phrase—-too 
simple to see that she had only thrown it out, as the cuttlefish 
its ink, to cover her retreat. 7 

But the weather had got a little into his brain: into his soul it 
was seldom allowed to intrude. He felt depressed and feeble 
and dull. But at the first corner he turned, he met a little breath 
of wind. It blew the rain in his face, and revived him a little, 
reminding him at the same time that he had not yet opened his 
umbrella. As he put it up he laughed. 

“Here I am,” he said to himself, ‘“‘lance in hand, spurring to ~ 
meet my dragon ! 1? 

Once when he used a similar expression, Malcolm had asked 
him what he meant by his dragon; ‘I mean,” replied the school- 
master, “‘ that huge slug, Ze Commonplace. It is the wearifulest 


dragon to fight in the whole miscreation. Wound it as you may, 


the jelly-mass of the monster closes, and the dull one is himself 
again—feeding all the time so cunningly that scarce one of the 
victims whom he has swallowed suspects that he is but pabulum 
slowly digesting in the belly of the monster.” 

If the schoolmaster’s dragon, spread abroad as he lies, a vague 
dilution, everywhere throughout human haunts, has yet any /ead- 
quarters, where else can they be than in such places as that to 
‘which he was now making his way to fight him? What can be 
fuller of the wearisome, depressing, beauty-blasting commonplace 
than a dissenting chapel in London, on the night of the weekly 
prayer-meeting, and that night a drizzly one? ‘The few lights fill 
the lower part with a dull, yellow, steamy glare, while the vast 
galleries, possessed by an ugly twilight, yawn above like the 
dreary openings of a disconsolate eternity. The pulpit rises into 
the dim damp air, covered with brown holland, reminding one of 
desertion and charwomen, if not of a chamber of death and 
spiritual undertakers, who have shrouded and coffined the truth. 
Gaping, empty, unsightly, the place is the very skull of the 
monster himself—the fittest place of all wherein to encounter the 


& 


THE PREACHER. 111 


great slug, and deal him one of those death blows which every sun- _ 


rise, every repentance, every child-birth, every true love deals him. 
Every hour he receives the blow that kills, but he takes long to 
die, for every hour he is right carefully fed and cherished by a 
whole army of purveyors, including every trade and profession, 
but officered chiefly by divines and men of science. 

When the dominie entered, all was still, and every light had a 
nimbus of illuminated vapour. There were hardly more than 
three present beyond the number Mr Marshal had given him to 
expect ; and their faces, some grim, some grimy, most of them 
troubled, and none blissful, seemed the nervous ganglions of the 
monster whose faintly gelatinous bulk filled the place. He 
seated himself in a pew near the pulpit, communed with his own 
heart and was still. Presently the ministering deacon, a humbler 
one in the worldly sense than Mr Marshal, for he kept a small 
ironmongery shop in the next street to the chapel, entered, 
twirling the wet from his umbrella as he came along one of the 
passages intersecting the pews. Stepping up into the desk which 
cowered humbly at the foot of the pulpit, he stood erect, and cast 
his eyes around the small assemnbly. Discovering there no one 
that could lead in singing, he chose out and read one of the 
monster’s favourite hymns, in which never a sparkle of thought or 
a glow of worship gave reason wherefore the holy words should 
have been carpentered together. ‘Then he prayed aloud, and 
then first the monster found tongue, voice, articulation. If this 
was worship, surely it was the monster’s own worship of itself! 
No God were better than one to whom such were fitting words of 
prayer. What passed in the man’s soul, God forbid I should 
judge: I speak but of the words that reached the ears of men. 

And over all the vast of London lay the monster, filling it like 
the night—not in churches and chapels only—in almost all 
theatres, and most houses—most of all in rich houses: everywhere 
he had a foot, a tail, a tentacle or two—everywhere suckers that 
drew the life-blood from the sickening and somnolent soul. 

When the deacon, a little brown man, about five-and-thirty, had 
ended his prayer, he read another hymn of the same sort—one 
of such as form the bulk of most collections, and then looked 
meaningly at Mr Graham, whom he had seen in the chapel on 
Sunday with his brother deacon, and therefore judged one of 
consequence, who had come to the meeting with an object, and 
ought to be propitiated: he had intended speaking himself. 
After having thus for a moment regarded him, 

“Would you favour us with a word of exhortation, sir?” he 
said, in a stage-like whisper. 3 


oo 


rete THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


Now the monster had by this time insinuated a hair-like sucker 
into the heart of the schoolmaster, and was busy. But at the — 
word, as the Red-cross Knight when he heard Orgoglio in the 
wood staggered to meet him, he rose at once, and although his 
umbrella slipped and fell with a loud discomposing clatter, calmly 
approached the reading desk. ‘To look at his outer man, this 
knight of the truth might have been the very high priest of the 
monster which, while he was sitting there, had been twisting his 
slimy, semt-electric, benumbing tendrils around his heart. His 
business was nevertheless to fight him, though to fight him in his” 
own heart and that of other people at one and the same moment, 
he might well find hard work. And the loathly worm had this 
advantage over the knight, that it was the first time he had stood 
up to speak in public since his failure thirty years ago. That 
hour again for a moment overshadowed his spirit. It was a wavy 
harvest morning in a village of the north. A golden wind was 
blowing, and little white clouds flying aloft in the sunny blue, 
The church was full of well-known faces, upturned, listening, 
expectant, critical. The hour vanished in a slow mist of abject 
misery and shame. But had he not learned to rejoice over all 
dead hopes, and write Ze Deuwms on their coffin-lids? And now 
he stood in dim light, in the vapour from damp garments, in dingi- 


ness and ugliness, with a sense of spiritual squalor and destitution 


in his very soul. He had tried to pray his own prayer while the 
deacon prayed his ; but there had come to him no reviving— 
no message for this handful of dull souls—there were nine of 
them in all—and his own soul crouched hard and dull within his 


bosom, How to give them one deeper breath? How to make 
them know they were alive? Whence was his aid to come? 


His aid was nearer than he knew. There were no hills 
to which he could lift his eyes, but help may hide in the valley as 
well as come down from the mountain, and he found his under 
the coal-scuttle bonnet of the woman that swept out and dusted 
the chapel. She was no interesting young widow. A life of 
labour and vanished children lay behind as well as before her. 
She was sixty years of age, seamed with the small-pox, and in 
every seam the dust and smoke of London had left astain. She 
had a troubled eye, anda gaze that seemed to ask of the universe 
why it had given birth to her. But it was only her face that 
asked the question; her mind was too busy with the ever 
recurring enigma, which, answered this week, was still an enigma 
for the next—how she was to pay her rent—too busy to have any 
other question to ask. Or would she not rather have gone to 
sleep altogether, under the dreary fascination of the slug 


THE PREACHER, 113 


monster, had she not had a severe landlady, who wowld be paid 
punctually, or turn her out? Anyhow, every time and all the 
time she sat in the chapel, she was brooding over ways and 
means, calculating pence and shillings—the day’s charing she had 

promised her, and the chances of more—mingling faint regrets 
over past indulgences—the extra half-pint of beer she drank on 
Saturday—the bit of cheese she bought on Monday. Of this face 
of care, revealing a spirit which Satan had bound, the school- 
master caught sight,—caught from its commonness, its grimness, 
its defeature, inspiration and uplifting, for there he beheld the 
oppressed, down-trodden, mire-fouled humanity which the man in 
whom he believed had loved because it was his father’s humanity 
divided into brothers, and had died straining to lift back to the 
bosom of that Father. Oh tale of horror and dreary monstrosity, 
if it be such indeed as the bulk of its priests on the one hand, and 
its enemies on the other represent it! Oh story of splendrous 
fate, of infinite resurrection and uplifting, of sun and breeze, of 
organ-blasts and exultation, for the heart of every man and 
woman, whatsoever the bitterness of its cark or the weight of its 
care, if it be such as the Book itself has held it from age to age! 

It was the mere humanity of the woman, I say, and nothing in 
her individuality of what is commonly called the interesting, that 
ministered to the breaking of the schoolmaster’s trance. “Oh ye 
of little faith!” were the first words that flew from his lips—he 
knew not whether uttered concerning himself or the charwoman 
the more; and at once he fell to speaking of him who said the 
words, and of the people that came to him and heard him gladly; 
—how this one, whom he described, must have felt, O4, ¢f that 
be true! how that one, whom also he described, must have said, 
Vow he means me! and so laid bare the secrets of many hearts, 
until he had concluded all in the misery of being without a helper 
in the world, a prey to fear and selfishness and dismay. Then 
he told them how the Lord pledged himself for all their needs— 
meat and drink and clothes for the body, and God and love and 
truth for the soul, if only they would put them in the right order 
and seek the best first. 

Next he spoke a parable to them—of a house and a father 
and his children. The children would not do what their father 
told them, and therefore began to keep out of his sight. After 
a while they began to say to each other that he must have gone 
out, it was so long since they had seen him—only they never 
went to look. And again after a time some of them began to 
say to each other that they did not believe they had ever had 
any father. But there were some who dared not say that—who 


__ 


* . 
Tod & ee * 4 
a. he enue fen ; x 
YS <a 


; 


45 LTHE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE. 


thought they had a father somewhere in the house, and yet. 


crept about in misery, sometimes hungry and often cold, fancy- 


ing he was not friendly to them, when all the time it was they _ 


who were not friendly to him, and said to themselves he would 
not give them anything. They never went to knock at his door, 
or call to know if he were inside and would speak to them. And 
all the time there he was sitting sorrowful, listening and listening 
for some little hand to come knocking, and some little voice to 
come gently calling through the key-hole ; for sorely did he long 
to take them to his bosom and give them everything. Only if 
he did that without their coming to him, they would not care for 
his love or him, would only care for the things he gave them, 
and soon would come to hate their brothers and sisters, and 
turn their own souls into hells, and the earth into a charnel of 
murder. ; 


Ere he ended he was pleading with the charwoman to seek 


her father in his own room, tell him her troubles, do what he 
told her, and fear nothing. And while he spoke, lo! the dragon- 
slug had vanished ; the ugly chapel was no longer the den of the 
hideous monster ; it was but the dusky bottom of a glory shaft, 
adown which gazed the stars of the coming resurrection. 

“The whole trouble is that we won't let God help us,” said 
the preacher, and sat down. 

A prayer from the greengrocer followed, in which he did seem 
to be feeling after God a little; and then the ironmonger pro- 


~ nounced the benediction, and all went—among the rest, Frederick 
Marshal, who had followed the schoolmaster, and now walked — 


-work. When she apologised for being late, Florimel said she 


back with him to his father’s, where he was to spend one night 
more. 


CHAPTER XXVIIL 
THE PORTRAIT. 


FLorImeL had found her daring visit to Lenorme stranger and 
more fearful than she had expected: her courage was not quite 
so masterful as she had thought. The next day she got Mrs 
Barnardiston to meet her at the studio. But she contrived to 
be there first by some minutes, and her friend found her seated, 
and the painter looking as if he had fairly begun his morning’s 


supposed her groom had brought round the horses before his 


Sie loi. Pea er aek 


THE PORTRAIT. 115 


time ; being ready, she had not looked at her watch. She was 
sharp on other people for telling stories-—but had of late ceased 
to see any great harm in telling one to protect herself. The fact 
however had begun to present itself in those awful morning 
hours that seem a mingling of time and eternity, and she did 
not like the discovery that, since her intimacy with Lenorme, 
she had begun to tell lies: what would he say if he knew? 

Malcolm found it dreary waiting in the street while she sat to 
the painter. He would not have minded it on Kelpie, for she 
was always occupation enough, but with only a couple of quiet 
horses to hold, it was dreary. He took to scrutinizing the faces 
that passed him, trying to understand them. To his surprise he 
found that almost everyone reminded him of somebody he had 
known before, though he could not always identify the likeness. 

It was a pleasure to see his yacht lying so near him, and Davy 
on the deck, and to hear the blows of the hammer and the sz2sh 
of the plane as the carpenter went on with the alterations to 
which he had set him, but he got tired of sharing in activity only 
with his ears and eyes. One thing he had by it, however, and 
that was—a good lesson in quiescent waiting—a grand thing for 
any man, and most of all for those in whom the active is strong. 

The next day Florimel did not ride until after lunch, but took 
her maid with her to the studio, and Malcolm had a long morn- 
ing with Kelpie. Once again he passed the beautiful lady in 
Rotten Row, but Kelpie was behaving in a most exemplary 
manner, and he could not tell whether she even saw him. I. 
believe she thought her lecture had done him good. The day 
after that Lord Liftore was able to ride, and for some days 
Florimel and he rode in the park before dinner, when, as Malcolm 
followed on the new horse, he had to see his lordship make love 
to his sister, without being able to find the least colourable 
pretext of involuntary interference. 

At length the parcel he had sent for from Lossie House 
arrived. He had explained to Mrs Courthope what he wanted 
the things for, and she had made no difficulty of sending them 
to the address he gave her. Lenorme had already begun the 
portrait, had indeed been working at it very busily, and was now 
quite ready for him to sit. The early morning being the only 
time a groom could contrive to spare—and that involved yet 
earlier attention to his horses, they arranged that Malcolm 
should be at the study every day by seven o’clock, until the 
painter’s object was gained. So he mounted Kelpie at half-past 
six of a fine breezy spring morning, rode across Hyde Park and 
down Grosvenor Vlace, u.d so reached Chelsea, where he put 


Ane yA 
gs 
O, i ae 


116) THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


up his mare in Lenorme’s stable—fortunately large enough to 
admit of an empty stall between her and the painter’s grand 
screw, else a battle frightful to relate might have fallen to my lot. 

Nothing could have been more to Malcolm’s mind than such 
a surpassing opportunity of learning with assurance what sort of 
man Lenorme was; and the relation that arose between them 
extended the sittings far beyond the number necessary for the 
object proposed. How the first of them passed I must recount 
with some detail. : 

As soon as he arrived, he was shown into the painter’s bed- 
room, where lay the portmanteau he had carried thither himself 
the night before: out of it, with a strange mingling of pleasure 
and sadness, he now took the garments of his father’s vanished 
state—the filibeg of the dark tartan of his clan, in which green 
predominated ; the French coat of black velvet of Genoa, with 
silver buttons ; the bonnet, which ought to have had an eagle’s 
feather, but had only an aigrette of diamonds; the black sporran 
of long goat’s hair, with the silver clasp; the silver-mounted 
dirk, with its appendages, set all with pale cairngorms nearly as 
good as oriental topazes; and the claymore of the renowned 
Andrew’s forging, with its basket hilt of silver, and its black, 
silver-mounted sheath. He handled each with the reverence of 
ason. Having dressed in them, he drew himself up with not a 
little of the Celt’s pleasure in fine clothes, and walked into the 

-painting-room. Lenorme started with admiration of his figure, 
and wonder at the dignity of his carriage, while, mingled with 
these feelings, he was aware of an indescribable doubt, something 
to which he could give no name. He almost sprang at his 
palette and brushes: whether he succeeded with the likeness of 
the late marquis or not, it would be his own fault if he did*not 
make a good picture! He painted eagerly, and they talked 
little, and only about things indifferent. 

At length the painter said, 

“Thank you. Now walk about the room while I spread a 
spadeful of paint: you must be tired stariding.” 

Malcolm did as he was told, and walked straight up to the 
Temple of Isis, in which the painter had now long been at work 
on the goddess. He recognised his sister at once, but a sudden 
pinch of prudence checked the exclamation that had almost burst 
from his lips. 

“ What a beautiful picture!” he said. ‘ What does it mean? 
—Surely it is Hermione coming to life, and Leontes dying of 
joy! But no; that would not fit. They are both too young, 
and ——” 


THE PORTRAIT. 117 


“You read Skakspere, I see,” said Lenorme, “as well as 
Epictetus.” 

“1 do—a good deal,” answered Malcolm. “But please tell 
me what you painted this for.” 

Then Lenorme told him the parable of Novalis, and Malcolm 
saw what the poet meant. He stood staring at the picture, and 
Lenorme sat working away, but a little anxious—he hardly knew 
why: had he bethought himself he would have put the picture 
out of sight before Malcolm came. 

“Vou wouldn’t be offended if I made a remark, would you, Mr 
Lenorme ?” said Malcolm at length. 

“Certainly not,” replied Lenorme, something afraid neverthe- 
less of what might be coming. 

“T don’t know whether I can express what I mean,” said Mal- 
colm, “but I’ll try. I could do it better in Scotch, I believe, but 
then you wouldn’t understand me.” 

“JT think I should,” said Lenorme. “I spent six months in 
Edinburgh once.’ 

“ Ow ay! but ye see they dinna thraw the words there jist-the 
same gait they du at Portlossie. Na, na! I maunna attemp’ ite 

“Hold, hold!” cried Lenorme. “I want to have your criticism. 
I don’t understand a word you are saying. You must make the 
best you can of the English.” 

“TI was only telling you in Scotch that I wouldn't try the 
Scotch,” returned Malcolm. ‘Now I will try the English.—In 
the first place, then—but really it’s very presumptuous of me, Mr 
Lenorme ; and it may be that I am blind to something in the — 
picture. 4 

“Go on,” said Lenorme impatiently. 

“Don’t you think then, that one of the first things you would 
look for in a goddess would be—what shall I call it ?—an air of 

mystery?” 

“That was so much involved in the very idea of Isis, in her 
especially, that they said she was always veiled, and no man had 
ever seen her face.” 

“That would greatly interfere with my notion of mystery,” said 
Malcolm. “There must be revelation before mystery. I take it 
that mystery is what lies behind revelation; that which as yet 
revelation has not reached. You must see something—a part of 
something, before you can feel any sense of mystery about 
it. The Isis for ever veiled is the absolutely Unknown, not the 
Mysterious.” 

‘But, you observe, the idea of the parable is different. Ac- 
cording to that Isis is for ever unveiling, that is revealing herself 


rds THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE. 


in her works, chiefly in the women she creates, and then chiefly - 


in each of them to the man who loves her.” 


“I see what you mean well enough; but not the less she 


remains the goddess, does she not?” 

«Surely she does.” 

“ And can a goddess ever reveal all she is and has?” 

Never.” 

“Then ought there not to be mystery about the face and form 
of your Isis on her pedestal?” 

“Is it not there? Is there not mystery in the face and form 
of every woman that walks the earth?” 


“Doubtless; but you desire—do you not?—to show that ' 


although this is the very lady the young man loved before ever 


he sought the shrine of the goddess, not the less is she the goddess. 


Tsis herself?” 

“T do—or at least I ought ; only—by Jove! you have already 
looked deeper into the whole thing than I.” 

“There may be things to account for that on both sides,” said 
Malcolm. “But one word more to relieve my brain :—if you 
would embody the full meaning of the parable, you must not be 
content that the mystery is there; you must show in your paint- 
ing that you feel it there ; you must paint the invisible veil that 
no hand can lift, for there it is, and there it ever will be, though 
Isis herself raise it from morning to morning.” 

“How am I to do that?” said Lenorme, not that he did not 
see what Malcolm meant, or agree with it: he wanted to make 
him talk. 

“How can I, who never drew a stroke, or painted anything but 
the gunnel of a boat, tell you that?” rejoined Malcolm. “It is 
your business. You must paint that veil, that mystery in the 
forehead, and in the eyes, and in the lips—yes, in the cheeks and 


the chin and the eyebrows and everywhere. You must make her 


say without saying it, that she knows oh! so much, if only she 
could make you understand it !—that she is all there for you, but 
the all is infinitely more than you can know. As she stands there 
now,——”’ 

“T must interrupt you,” cried Lenorme, “just to say that the 
picture is not finished yet.” 

“And yet I will finish my sentence, if you will allow me,” 
returned Malcolm. ‘‘—As she stands there—the goddess—she 
looks only a beautiful young woman, with whom the young man 
' spreading out his arms to her is very absolutely in love. There 
is the glow and the mystery of love in both their faces, and 
nothing more,” 


THE PORTRAIT. — 1G 


“ And is not that enough?” said Lenorme. 

“No,” answered Malcolm. ‘And yet it may be too much,” 
he added, ‘‘if you are going to hang it up where people will 
see it.” 

As he said this, he looked hard at the painter for a moment. 
The dark hue of Lenorme’s cheek deepened ; his brows lowered 
a little farther over the black wells of his eyes ; and he painted 
on without answer. 

“‘ By Jove!” he said at length. 

“Don’t swear, Mr Lenorme,” said Malcolm. ‘—Besides, 
that’s my Lord Liftore’s oath.—If you do, you will teach my lady 
to swear.” 

“What do you mean by that?” asked Lenorme, with offence - 
plain enough in his tone. 

Thereupon Malcolm told him how on one occasion, himself 
being present, the marquis her father happening to utter an impre- 
cation, Lady Florimel took the first possible opportunity of using 
the very same words on her own account, much to the marquis’s 
amusement and Malcolm’s astonishment. But upon reflection he 
had come to see that she only wanted to cure her father of the 
bad habit. | 

The painter laughed heartily, but stopped all at once and said, 

“It’s enough to make any fellow swear though, to hear a— 
groom talk as you do about art.” 

“ Have I the impudence? I didn’t know it,” said Malcolm, 
with some dismay. “I seemed to myself merely saying the 
obvious thing, the common sense, about the picture, on the ground 
of your own statement of your meaning in it. I am annoyed 
with myself if I have been talking of things I know nothing 
about.” 

“On the contrary, MacPhail, you are so entirely right in what 
you say, that I cannot for the life of me understand where or how 
you can have got it.” 

“ Mr Graham used to talk to me about everything.” 

“Well, but he was only a country school-master.” 

“ A good deal more than that, sir,’ said Malcolm, solemnly. 
“ He is a disciple of him that knows everything. And now I 
think of it, I do believe that what I’ve been saying about your 
picture, I must have got from hearing him talk about ze revela- 
tion, in which is included Isis herself, with her brother and all 
their train.” 

Lenorme held his peace. Malcolm had taken his place again 
unconsciously, and the painter was working hard, and looking 
very thoughtful. Malcolm went again to the picture. 


120 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


“Fillo !” cried Lenorme, looking up and finding no object in 
the focus of his eyes. 

Malcolm returned directly. 

“There was just one thing I wanted to see,” he said, 
“—-whether the youth worshipping his goddess, had come into | 
her presence clean.” 

“And what is your impression of him?” half murmured 
Lenorme, without iifting his head. 7 

““The one that’s painted cere,” answered Malcolm, “does look 
as if he might know that the least a goddess may claim of a wor- 
shipper is, that he should come into her presence pure enough 
to understand her purity. I came upon a fine phrase the other 
evening in your English prayer-book. I never looked into it — 
before, but I found one lying on a book-stall, and it happened to 
open at the marriage service. ‘There, amongst other good things, 
the bridegroom says: ‘With my body I thee worship.’ —‘ That's 
grand,’ I said to myself. ‘That’s as it should be. The man 
whose body does not worship the woman he weds, should marry 
a harlot.’ God bless Mr William Shakspere !—Ae knew that. I 
remember Mr Graham telling me once, before I had read the play, 
that the critics condemn Measure for Measure as failing in poetic 
justice. I know little about the critics, and care less, for a man 
who has to earn his bread and feed his soul as well, has enough 
to do with the books themselves without what people say about 
them ; and Mr Graham would not tell me whether he thought - 
the critics right or wrong; he wanted me to judge for myself. 
But when I came to read the play, I found, to my mind, a most 
absolute and splendid justice in it. They think, I suppose, that 
my lord Angelo should have been put to death. It just reveals 
the low breed of them; they think death the worst thing, there- 
fore the greatest punishment. But Angelo prays for death, that 
it may hide him from his shame: itis too good for him, and he 
shall not have it. He must live to remove the shame from 
Mariana. And then see how Lucio is served !” 

While Malcolm talked, Lenorme went on painting diligently, 
listening and saying nothing. When he had thus ended, a pause 
of some duration followed. | 

“A goddess has a right to claim that one thing—has she not, 
Mr Lenorme?” said Malcolm at length, winding up a silent train 
of thought aloud. 

“What thing?” asked Lenorme, still without lifting his 
head. , 

“Purity in the arms a man holds out to her,” answered 
Malcolm. 


THE PORTRAIT. ‘ 12) 


“Certainly,” replied Lenorme, with a sort of mechanical 
absoluteness. 

“And according to your picture, every woman whom a man 
loves is a soddess—-the goddess of nature ?” 

“Certainly ;—-but what ave you driving at? I can’t paint for 
you. Theyre you stand,” he went on, half angrily, “as if you 
were Socrates himself, driving some poor Athenian buck into the 
corner of his deserts ! Z don’t deserve any such insinuations, I 
would have you know.” 

“IT am making none, sir. I dare never insinuate except I were 
prepared to charge. But I have told you I was bred up a fisher- 
lad, and partly among the fishers, to begin with, I half learned, 
half discovered things that tended to give me what some would 
count severe notions: I count them common sense. Then, as 
you know, I went into service, and in that position it is easy 
enough to gather that many people hold very.loose and very 
hasty notions about some things ; so I just wanted to see how 
you felt about such. If I had a sister now, and saw a man com- 
ing to woo her, all beclotted with puddle-filth—or if I knew that 
he had just left some woman as good as she, crying eyes and 
heart out over his child—I don’t know that I could keep my 
hands off him—at least if I feared she might take him. What do 
you think now? Mightn’t it be a righteous thing to throttle the 
scum and be hanged for it?” 

“Well,” said Lenorme, “I don’t know why I should justify 
myself, especially where no charge is made, MacPhail; and I 
don’t know why to you any more than another man; but at this 
- moment I am weak, or egotistic, or sympathetic enough to wish 
you to understand that, so far as the poor matter of one virtue 
goes, I might without remorse act Sir Galahad in a play.” 

“ Now you are beyond me,” said Malcolm. “I don’t know 
what you mean.’ 

So Lenorme had to tell him the old Armoric tale which 
Tennyson has since rendered so lovelily, for, amongst artists af 
least, he was one of the earlier burrowers in the British legends. 
And as he told it, in a half sullen kind of way, the heart of the 
young marquis glowed within him, and he vowed to himself that 
Lenorme and no other should marry his sister. But, lest he 
should reveal more emotion than the obvious occasion justified, 
he restrained speech, and again silence fell, during which 
Lenorme was painting furiously. 

“Confound it!” he cried at last, and sprang to his feet, but 
without taking his eyes from his picture, “what have I been 
doing all this time but making a portrait of you, MacPhail, and 


¢ 


122 TIE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


forgetting what you were there for! And yet,’ he went on, 
hesitating and catching up the miniature, “I ave gota certain © 
likeness! Yes, it must be so, for I see in it also a certain look 
of Lady Lossie. Well! I suppose a man can’t altogether help 
what he paints any more than what he dreams. That will do for 
this morning, anyhow, I think, MacPhail. Make haste and put be 
on your own clothes, and come into the next room to breakfast. : 
You must be tired with standing so long. 

- “Tt zs about the hardest work I ever tried,” answered 
Malcolm ; ‘“‘ but I doubt if I am as tired as Kelpie. Ive been 
listening for the last half hour to hear the stalls flying.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 
AN EVIL OMEN, 


FLORIMEL was beginning to understand that the shield of the 
portrait was not large enough to cover many more visits to the 
studio. Still she must and would venture ; and should anything 
be said, there at least was the portrait. For some weeks it had ~ 
been all but finished, was never off its easel, and always showed _ 
a touch of wet paint somewhere—he kept the last of it lingering, 
ready to prove itself almost yet not altogether finished. What 
was to follow its absolute completion, neither of them could tell. 
The worst of it was that their thoughts about it differed dis- 
cordantly. Florimel not unfrequently regarded the rupture of 
their intimacy as a thing not undesirable—this chiefly after such 
a talk with Lady Bellair as had been illustrated by some tale of 
misalliance or scandal between high or low, of which kind of 
provision for age the bold-faced countess had a large store: her 
memory was little better than an ashpit of scandal. Amongst 
other biographical scraps one day she produced the case of a 
certain earl’s daughter, who, having disgraced herself by marry- 
ing a low fellow—an artist, she believed—was as a matter of 
course neglected by the man whom, in accepting him, she had 
taught to despise her, and, before a twelvemonth was over—her 
family finding it impossible to hold communication with her—was 
actually seen by her late maid scrubbing her own floor. 
“ Why couldn't she leave it dirty?” said Florimel. 
“Why indeed,” returned Lady Bellair, “ but that people sink 
to their fortunes! Blue blood won't keep them out of the 
gutter.” . 


AN EVIL OMEN. 123 


The remark was true, but of more general application than she 
Intended, seeing she herself was in the gutter and did not know 
it.. She spoke only of what followed on marriage beneath one’s 
natal position, than which she declared there was nothing worse. 
a woman of rank could do.” 

“She may get over anything but that,” she would say, believ- 
Ing, but not saying, that she spoke from experience. 

Was it part of the late marquis’s purgatory to see now, as the 
natural result of the sins of his youth, the daughter whose innocence 
was dear to him exposed to all the undermining influences of this 
good-natured but low-moralled woman, whose ideas of the most 
mysterious relations of humanity were in no respect higher than 
those of a class which must not even be mentioned in my pages? 
At such tales the high-born heart would flutter in Florimel’s 
bosom, beat itself against its bars, turn sick at the sight of its 
danger, imagine it had been cherishing a crime, and resolve— 
soon—before very long-—at length—finally—to ‘break so far at 
least with the painter as to limit their intercourse to the radiation 
of her power across a dinner-table, the rhythmic heaving of their 
two hearts at a dance, or the quiet occasional talk in a corner, 
when the looks of each would reveal to the other that they knew 
themselves the martyrs of a cruel and inexorable law. It must 
be remembered that she had had no mother since her childhood, 
that she was now but a girl, and that the passion of a girl to that 
of a woman is ‘‘as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto — 
wine.” Of genuine love she had little more than enough to serve 
as salt to the passion; and passion, however bewitching, yea, 
entrancing a condition, may yet be of more worth than that 
induced by opium or hashish, and a capacity for it may be con- 
joined with anything or everything contemptible and unmanly or 
unwomanly. In Florimel’s case, however, there was chiefly much 
of the childish in it. Definitely separated from Lenorme, she 
would have been merry again in a fortnight; and yet, though 
she half knew this herself, and at the same time was more than 
half ashamed of the whole affair, she did not give it up—would 
not—only intended by and by to let it go, and meantime gave— 
occasionally—pretty free flutter to the half grown wings of her 
fancy. 

_ Her liking for the painter had therefore, not unnaturally, its 
fits. It was subject in a measure to the nature of the engage- 
ments she had— that is, to the degree of pleasure she expected 
from them; it was subject, as we have seen, to skilful battery 
from the guns of her chaperon’s entrenchment ; and more than 
to either was it subject to those delicate chang ses of condition 


aS Sects oes ier de Oe Po Sn ota Feud ess 
aay Ae z Sy = rae 3 eats =a eh UAC ae © ee rah J hey “in 


PFE ee RR ES ae ae 


ee 


124 THE MAROUIS OF LOSSIE. 


which in the microcosm are as frequent, and as varied bot! hin kind 
and degree, as in the macrocosm. The spirit has its risings and set- 
tings of sun and moon, its seasons, its clouds and stars, its solstices, 
its tides, its winds, its storms, its earthquakes—infinite vitality in 
endless fluctuation. To rule these changes, Florimel had neither 
the power that comes of love, nor the strength that comes of 
obedience. What of conscience she had was not yet conscience 


toward God, which is the guide to freedom, but conscience 


toward society, which is the slave of a fool. It was no wonder 
then that Lenorme, believing—hoping she loved him, should 
find her hard to understand. He said /ard, but sometimes he 
meant zwzpossible. He loved as a man loves who has thought 
seriously, speculated, tried to understand ; whose love therefore 


is consistent with itself, harmonious with its nature and history, 
changing only in form and growth, never in substance and char- 


acter. Hence the idea of Florimel became im his mind the 
centre of perplexing thought; the unrest of her being meta- 
morphosed on the way, passed over into his, and troubled him 
sorely. Neither was his mind altogether free of the dread of re- 
proach. For self-reproach he could find little or no ground, see- 
ing that to pity her much for the loss of consideration her 


marriage with him would involve, would be to undervalue the_ 


honesty of his love and the worth of his art; and indeed her 
position was so independently based that she could not lose it 
even by marrying one who had not the social standing of a 


brewer or a stockbroker ; but his pride was uneasy under the ~ 


foreseen criticism that his selfishness had taken advantage of her 
youth and inexperience to work on the mind of an ignorant girl 
—a criticism not likely to be the less indignant that those who 
passed it would, without a shadow of compunction, have handed 
her over, body, soul, and goods, to one of their own order, had 
he belonged to the very canaille of the race. 

The painter was not merely in love with Florimel: he loved 
her. I will not say that he was in no degree dazzled by her 
rank, or that he felt no triumph, as a social nomad camping on 
the No-man’s-land of society, at the thought of the justification 


of the human against the conventional, in his scaling of the’ 


giddy heights of superiority, and, on one of its topmost peaks, 


taking from her nest that rare bird in the earth, a landed and | 


titled marchioness. But such thoughts were only changing hues 
on the feathers of his love, which itself was a mighty bird with 
great and yet growing wings. 

A. day or two passed before Florimel went again to the studio 
—accompanied, notwithstanding Lenorme’s warning and her own 


AN EVIL OMEN. 125 


doubt, yet again by her maid, a woman, unhappily, of Lady 
Bellair’s finding. At Lossie House, Malcolm had felt a repug- 
nance to her, both moral and physical. When first he heard her 
name, one of the servants speaking of her as Miss Caley, he took 
it for Scaley, and if that was not her name, yet scaly was her 
nature. 

This time Florimel rode to Chelsea with Malcolm, having 
directed Caley to meet her there ; and, the one designing to be 
a little early, and the other to be a little late, two results 
naturally followed—first, that the lovers had a few minutes 
alone; and second, that when Caley crept in, noiseless and 
unannounced as a cat, she had her desire, and saw the painter’s 
arm round Florimel’s waist, and her head on his bosom. Still 
more to her contentment, not hearing, they did not see her, and 
she crept out again quietly as she had entered: it would of 
course be to her advantage to let them know that she had seen, 
and that they were in her power, but it might be still more to 
her advantage to conceal the fact so long as there was “ chance 
of additional discovery in the same direction. Through the 
success of her trick it came about that Malcolm, chancing to 
look up from Honour’s back to the room where he always. break- 
fasted with his new friend, saw in one of the windows, as in 
a picture, a face radiant with such an expression as that of 
the woman-headed snake might have worn when he saw Adam 
take the apple from the hand of Eve. 

Caley was of the common class of servants in this, that she 
considered service servitude, and took her amends in selfishness: 
she was unlike them in this, that while false to her employers, 
she made no common cause with her fellows against them— 
regarded and sought none but her own ends. Her one thought 
was to make the most of her position ; for that, to gain influence 
with, and, if it might be, power over her mistress; and, thereto, 
first of all, to find out whether she had a secret: she had now 
discovered not merely that she had one, but the secret itself! 
She was clever, greedy, cunning; equally capable, according to 
the faculty with which she might be matched, of duping or 
of being duped. She rather liked her mistress, but watched her 
in the interests of Lady Bellair. She had a fancy for the earl, a 
natural dislike for Malcolm which she concealed in distant 
politeness, and for all the rest of the house, indifference. As to 
her person, she had a neat oval face, thin and sallow, in 
expression subacid ; a lithe, rather graceful figure, and hands too 
long, with fingers almost too tapering—of which hands and 
fingers she was very careful, contemplating them in secret with a 


Pate ae 


126 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE. 


regard amounting almost to reverence: they were her sole wit- 


nesses to a descent in which she believed, but of which she had 
no other shadow of proof. 

Caley’s face, then, with its unsaintly illumination, gave Mal- 
colm something to think about as he sat there upon Honour, 
the new horse. Clearly she had had a triumph: what could it 
be? The nature of the woman was not altogether unknown 
to him even from the first, and he could not for months go on 
meeting her occasionally in passages and on stairs without 
learning to understand his own instinctive dislike: it was plain 
the triumph was not in good. It was plain too that it was in 
something which had that very moment occurred, and could 
hardly have to do with anyone but her mistress. Then her 


being in that room revealed more. They would never have sent’ 


her out of the study, and so put themselves in her power. She 
had gone into the house but a moment before, a minute or two 
behind her mistress, and he knew with what a cat-like step she 
went about: she had surprised them—discovered how matters 
stood between her mistress and the painter! He saw everything 
—almost as it had taken place. She had seen without being 
seen, and had retreated with her prize! Florimel was then in 
the woman’s power: what was he to do? He must at least let 
her gather what warning she could from the tale of what he had 
seen. 

Once arrived at a resolve, Malcolm never lost time. They 
had turned but one corner on their way home, when he rode up 
to her. 

“ Please, my lady,” he began. 

But the same instant Florimel was pulling up. 

“Malcolm,” she said, “I have left my pocket-handkerchief. 
I must go back for it.” 

As she spoke, she turned her horse’s head. But Malcolm, 
dreading lest Caley should yet be lingering, would not allow her 
to expose herself to a greater danger than she knew. 

“ Before you go, my lady, I must tell you something I hap- 
pened to see while I waited with the horses,” he said. 

The earnestness of his tone struck Florimel. She looked at 
him with eyes a little wider, and waited to hear. 

“T happened to look up at the drawing-room windows, my 
lady, and Caley came to one of them with swch a look on her 


- face! I can’t exactly describe it to you, my lady, but 4 


“Why do you tell me?” interrupted his mistress, with absolute 
composure, and hard, questioning eyes. 
But she had drawn herself up in the saddle. Then, before he 


Ee Mee eR SA et Ce eye gi Seek ae 
AN EVIL OMEN. 127 


could reply, a flash of thought seemed to cross her face with a 
quick single motion of her eyebrows, and it was instantly altered 
and thoughtful, She seemed to have suddenly perceived some 
cause for taking a mild interest in his communication. 

“But it cannot be, Malcolm,” she said, in quite a changed 
tone. “You must have taken someone else for her. She 
never left the studio all the time I was there.” 

“Tt was immediately after her arrival, my lady. She went in 
about two minutes after your ladyship, ‘and could not have had 
much more than time to go upstairs when I saw her come to the 
window. I felt bound to tell your ladyship.” 

“Thank you, Malcolm,” returned Florimel, kindly. “ You 
did right to tell me,—but—it’s of no consequence. Mr Le- 
norme’s housekeeper and she must have been talking about 
something.” 

But her eyebrows were now thoughtfully contracted over her 
eyes. 


“There had been no time for that, I think, my lady,” said 


Malcolm. 

Florimel turned again and rode on, saying no more about the 
handkerchief. Malcolm saw that he had succeeded in warning 
her, and was glad. But had he foreseen to what it would lead, 
he would hardly have done it. 

Florimel was indeed very uneasy. She could not help strongly 
suspecting that she had betrayed herself to one who, if not an 
intentional spy, would yet be ready enough to make a spy’s use 
of anything she might have picked up. What was to be done? 
It was now too late to think of getting rid of her: that would be 
but her signal to disclose whatever she had seen, and so not merely 


enjoy a sweet revenge, but account with clear satisfactoriness for ~ 


her dismissal. What would not Florimel now have given for some 
one who could sympathise with her and yet counsel her! She 


was afraid to venture another meeting with Lenorme, and besides — 


was not a little shy of the advantage the discovery would give 
him in pressing her to marry him. “And now first she began to 
feel as if her sins were going to find her out. 

A day or two passed in alternating psychical flaws and oem 
with poor glints of sunshine between, She watched her maid, 
but her maid knew it, and discovered no change in her manner 
or behaviour. Weary of observation she was gradually settling 
into her former security, when Caley began to drop hints that 
alarmed her. Might it not be altogether the safest thing to take 
her into confidence? It would be such a relief she thought, 
to have a woman she could talk to! The result was that she 


pe eee 


128 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE. 


began to lift a corner of the veil that hid her trouble; the 
woman encouraged her, and at length the silly girl threw her 
arms round the scaly one’s neck, much to that person’s satis- 
faction, and told her that she loved Mr Lenorme. She knew of 
course, she said, that she could not marry him. She was only 
waiting a fit opportunity to free herself from a connection which, 
howeve er delightful, she was unable to justify. How the maid 
iterpreted her confession, I do not care to enquire very closely, 
ut anyhow it was in a manner that promised much to her after- 
wfluence. J hasten over this part of Florimel’s history, for that 
onfession to Caley was perhaps the one thing in her life she 
1ad most reason to be ashamed of, for she was therein false to 
the being she thought she loved best in the world. Could 
Lenorme have known her capable of unbosoming herself to 
such a woman, it would almost have slain the love he bore her. 
The notions of that odd-and-end sort of person, who made his 
livelihood by spreading paint, would have been too hideously 


shocked by the shadow of an intimacy between his love and such 


as she. 

Caley first comforted the weeping girl, and then began to 
insinuate encouragement. She must indeed give him up—there 
was no help for that ; but neither was there any necessity for 
doing so all at once. Mr Lenorme was a beautiful man, and 
any woman might be proud to be loved by him. She must take 
her time to it. She might trust her. And so on and on—for 
she was as vulgar-minded as the worst of those whom ladies 
endure about their persons, handling their hair, and having 
access to more of their lock-fast places than they would willingly 
imagine. 

The first result was that, on the pretext of bidding him fare- 
well, and convincing him that he and she must meet no more, 
fate and forcune, society and duty being all alike against their 
happiness —I mean on that pretext to herself, the only one to be 
deceived by it—Florimel arranged with her woman one evening 
to go the next morning to the studio: she knew the painter to be 
an early riser, and always at his work before eight o’clock. But 
although she tried to imagine she had persuaded herself to say 


farewell, certainly she had not yet brought her mind to any ripe- 


ness of resolve in the matter. 

At seven o’clock in the morning, the marchioness habited like 
a housemaid, they slipped out by the front door, turned: the 
comers of two streets, found a hackney coach waiting tor them, 
and arrived in due time at the painter’s abode. 


mea ah Pee es 


— 


eye 


A QUARREL, 129 


CHAPTER XXX, 
A QUARREL. 


WHEN the door opened and Florimel glided in, the painter 
sprang to his feet to welcome her, and she flew softly, soundless 
as a moth, into his arms; for the study being large and full of 
things, she was not aware of the presence of Malcolm. From 
behind a picture on an easel, he saw them meet, but shrinking 
from being an open witness to their secret, and also from being 
discovered in his father’s clothes by the sister who knew him 
only as a servant, he instantly sought escape. Nor was it hard 
to find, for near where he stood was a door opening into a small 
Intermediate chamber, communicating with the drawing-room, 
and by it he fled, intending to pass through to Lenorme’s bed- 
room, and change his clothes. With noiseless stride he hurried 
away, but could not help hearing a few passionate words that 
escaped his sister’s lips before Lenorme could warn her that they 
were not alone—words which, it seemed to him, could come 
only from a heart whose very pulse was devotion. 

“How can I live without you, Raoul?” said the girl as she 
clung to him. 

Lenorme gave an uneasy glance behind him, saw Malcolm 
disappear, and answered, 

“1 hope you will never try, my darling.” 

“Oh, but you know this can’t last,” she returned, with play- 
fully affected authority. “It must come toanend. They will 
interfere.” 

“Who can? Who -will dare?” said the painter with con- 
fidence. 

‘People will. We had better stop it ourselves—before it all 
comes out, and we are shamed,” said Florimel, now with perfect 
Seriousness. 

“Shamed !” cried Lenorme. ‘“—Well, if you can’t help being 
ashamed of me—and perhaps, as you have been brought up, you 
can’t—do you not then love me enough to encounter a little 
shame for my sake? I should welcome worlds of such for 
yours ?” 

Florimel was silent. She kept her face hidden on his shoulder, 
but was already halfway to a quarrel. 

“You don’t love me, Florimel!” he said, after a pause, little 
thinking how nearly true were the words. 

es Well, suppose I don’t!” she cried, halt defiantly, half 

I 


130 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


merrily ; and drawing herself from him, she stepped back two 
paces, and looked at him with saucy eyes, in which burned two 
little flames of displeasure, that seemed to shoot up from the red 
spots glowing upon her cheeks. Lenorme looked at her. He 
had often seen her like this before, and knew that the shell was 
charged and the fuse lighted. -But within lay a mixture even 
more explosive than he suspected; for not merely was there 
more of shame and fear and perplexity mingled with her love 
than he understood, but she was conscious of having now been 
false to him, and that rendered her temper dangerous. 

_ Lenorme had already suffered severely from the fluctuations of 
her moods. They had been almost too much for him. He 
could endure them, he thought, to all eternity, if he had her to 
himself, safe and sure; but the confidence to which he rose 
every now and then that she would one day be his, just as often 
failed him, rudely shaken by some new symptom of what almost 
seemed like cherished inconstancy. If after all she should 
forsake him! It was impossible, but she might. If even that 
should come, he was too much of a man to imagine anything 
but a stern encounter of the inevitable, and he knew he would 
survive it; but he knew also that life could never be the same 


again ; that for a season work would be impossible—the kind of | 


work he had hitherto believed his own rendered for ever impossi- 
ble perhaps, and his art degraded to the mere earning of a living. 
At best he would have to die and be buried and rise again 
before existence could become endurable under the new squalid 
condition of life without her. It was no wonder then if her 
behaviour sometimes angered him; for even against a Will 0’ 
_ the Wisp that has enticed us into a swamp, a glow of foolish 
indignation will spring up. And now a black fire in his eyes 
answered the blue flash in hers; and the difference suggests the 
diversity of their loves: hers might vanish in fierce explosion, 
his would go on burning like a coal mine. A word of indignant 
expostulation rose to his lips, but a thought came that repressed 
it. He took her hand, and led her—the wonder was that she 
yielded, for she had seen the glow in his eyes, and the fuse of 
her own anger burned faster; but she did yield, partly from 
curiosity, and followed where he pleased—her hand lying dead 
Inhis. It was but to the other end of the room he led her, to 
the picture of her father, now all but finished. Why he did so, 
he would have found it hard to say. Perhaps the Genius that 
lies under the consciousness forefelt a catastrophe, and urged 
him to give his gift ere giving should be impossible. 

Malcolm stepped into the drawing-room, where the table was 


A QUARREL. — ) 131 


laid as usual for breakfast: there stood Caley, helping herself to 
a spoonful of honey from Hymettus. At his entrance she started 
violently, and her sallow face grew earthy. For some seconds 
she stood motionless, unable to take her eyes off the apparition, 
as it seemed to her, of the late marquis, in wrath at her encour- 
agement of his daughter in disgraceful courses. Malcolm, sup- 
posing only she was ashamed of herself, took no farther notice of 
her, and walked deliberately towards the other door. Ere he 
reached it she knew him. Burning with the combined ires of 
fright and shame, conscious also that, by the one little contempt- 
ible act of greed in which he had surprised her, she had justified 
the aversion which her woman-instinct had from the first recog- 
nized in him, she darted to the door, stood with her back against 
it, and faced him flaming. 

“So!” she cried, “this is how my lady’s kindness is abused ! 
The insolence! Her groom goes and sits for his portrait in her 
father’s court-dress !” 

As she ceased, all the latent vulgarity of her nature broke 
loose, and with a contracted PG she seized her thin nose between 
her thumb and fore-finger, to the indication that an evil odour of 
fish interpenetrated her atmosphere, and must at the moment be 
defiling the garments of the dead marquis. 

‘My lady shall know of this,’ she concluded, with a vicious 
clenching of her teeth, and two or three nods of her neat head. 

Malcolm stood regarding her with a coolness that yet inflamed 
her wrath. He could not help smiling at the reaction of shame 
in indignation, Had her anger been but a passing flame, that smile 
would have ‘turned it into enduring hate. She hissed in his face. 

“Go and have the first word,” he said; “only leave the door 
and let me pass.” 

“Let you pass indeed! What would you pass for?—The 
bastard of old Lord James and a married woman !—-I don’t care 
that for you.” And she snapped her fingers in his face. | 

Malcolm turned from her and went to the window, tai. ng a 
newspaper from the breakfast table as he passed, and there sat 
down to read until the way should be clear. Carried beyond 
herself by his utter indifference, Caley darted from the room and 
went straight into the study. 

Lenorme led Florimel in front of the picture. She gave a 
great start, and turned and stared pallid at the painter. The 
effect upon her was such as he had not foreseen, and the words 
she uttered were not such as he could have hoped to hear. . 

“ What would /e think of me if he knew?” she cried, clasping 
her hands in agony. 


i - 
SE ee Ee ee ae ee 
ars a 


142 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


That moment Caley burst into the room, her eyes lamping 
like a cat’s. 

“My lady!” she shrieked, “there’s MacPhail, the groom, my 
lady, dressed up in your honoured father’s bee-utiful clo’es as he 
always wore when he went to dine with the Prince! And, please, 
my lady, he’s that rude I could ’ardly keep my ‘ands off him.” 

Florimel flashed a dagger of question in Lenorme’s eyes. 
The painter drew himself up. 

“It was at my request, I.ady Lossie,” he said. 

“Indeed!” returned Florimel, in high scorn, and glanced 
again at the picture. 


“IT see!” she went on. ‘‘ How could I be such an idiot! It. 


was my groom’s, not my father’s likeness you meant to surprise 
me with |” 

Her eyes flashed as if she would annihilate him. 

‘“‘T have worked hard in the hope of giving you pleasure, Lady 
Lossie,” said the painter, with wounded dignity. | 
_ “ And you have failed,” she adjoined cruelly. 

The painter took the miniature after which he had been work- 
ing, from a table near, handed it to her with a proud obeisance, 
and the same moment dashed a brushful of dark paint across the 
face of the picture. 

“Thank you, sir,” said Florimel, and for a moment felt as if 
she hated him. 

She turned away and walked from the study. The door of the 
drawing-room was open, and Caley stood by the side of it. 
Florimel, too angry to consider what she was about, walked in: 
there sat Malcolm in the window, in her father’s clothes, and his 
very attitude, reading the newspaper. He did not hear her 
enter. He had been waiting till he could reach the bed-room 
unseen by her, for he knew from the sound of the voices that the 
study door was open. Her anger rose yet higher at the sight. 

‘“‘ Leave the room,” she said. 

He started to his feet, and now perceived that his sister was 
in the dress of a servant. He took one step forward and stood 
—-a little mazed—gorgeous in dress and arms of price, before 
his mistress in the cotton gown of a housemaid. . 

“Take those clothes off instantly,” said Florimel slowly, 
replacing wrath with haughtiness as well as she might. 

Malcolm turned to the door without a word. He saw that 
things had gone wrong where most he would have wished them 
go right. 

“T’ll see to them being well aired, my lady,” said Caley, with 
sibilant indignation. 


THE TWO DAIMONS. 133 


Malcolm went to the study. The painter sat before the 
picture of the marquis, with his elbows on his knees, and his 
head between his hands. 

“Mr Lenorme,” said Malcolm, approaching him gently. 

“Oh, go away,” said Lenorme, without raising his head. “1 
can’t bear the sight of you yet.” 

Malcolm obeyed, a little smile playing about the corners of his 
mouth. Caley saw it as he passed, and hated him yet worse. 
He was in his own clothes, booted and belted, in two minutes, 
Three sufficed to replace his father’s garments in the portmanteau, 
and in three more he and Kelpie went plunging past his mistress 
and her maid as they drove home in their lumbering vehicle. 

“The insolence of the fellow!” said Caley, loud enough ior 

her mistress to hear notwithstanding the noise of the rattling 
windows. “A pretty pass we are come to!” 
_ But already Florimel’s mood had begun to change. She felt 
that she had done her best to alienate men on whom she could 
depend, and that she had chosen for a confidante one whom she 
had no ground for trusting. 

She got safe and unseen to her room; and Caley believed she 
had only to improve the advantage she had now gained. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 
THE TWO DAIMONS. 


Tuincs had taken a turn that was not to Malcolm’s satisfaction, 
and his thoughts were as busy all the way home as Kelpie would 
allow. He had ardently desired that his sister should be 
thoroughly in love with Lenorme, for that seemed to open a clear 
path out of his worst difficulties ; now they had quarrelled ; and 
besides were both angry with him. The main fear was that 
Liftore would now make some progress with her. Things looked 
dangerous. Even his warning against Caley had led to a result 
the very opposite of his intent and desire. And now it recurred 
to him that he had once come upon Liftore talking to Caley, and 
giving her something that shone like a sovereign. 

Earlier on the same morning of her visit to the studio, Florimel 
had awaked and found herself in the presence of the spiritual 
Vehmgericht. Every member of the tribunal seemed against her. 
All her thoughts were busy accusing, none of them excusing one 
another. So hard were they upon her that she fancied she had 


134, THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


nearly come to the conclusion that, if onlyshe could do it pleasantly, 
without pain or fear, the best thing would be to swallow something 
and fall asleep; for like most people she was practically an atheist, 
and therefore always thought of death as the refuge from the ills 
of life. But although she was often very uncomfortable, Florimel 
knew nothing of such genuine downright misery as drives some 
people to what can be no more to their purpose than if a man 
should strip himself naked because he is cold. When she 
returned from her unhappy visit, and had sent her attendant to 
get her some tea, she threw herself upon her bed, and found her- 
self yet again in the dark chambers of the spiritual police. But 
already even their company was preferable to that of Caley, whose 
officiousness began to enrage her. She was yet tossing in the 
Nessus-tunic of her own disharmony, when Malcolm came for 
orders. ‘To get rid of herself and Caley both, she desired him to 
bring the horses round at once. 

It was more than Malcolm had expected. He ran: he might 
yet have a chance of trying to turn her in the right direction. 
He knew that Liftore was neither in the house nor at the stable. 
With the help of the earl’s groom, he was round in ten minutes. 
Florimel was all but ready: like some other ladies she could 
dress quickly when she had good reason. She sprang from 
Malcolm’s hand to the saddle, and led as straight northward as 
she could go, never looking behind her till she drew rein on the 
top of Hampstead Heath. When he rode up to her “ Malcolm,” 
she said, looking at him half-ashamed, “I don’t think my father 
would have minded you wearing his clothes.” 

“Thank you, my lady,” said Malcolm. “At least he would 
have forgiven anything meant for your pleasure.” 

““T was too hasty,” she said. ‘“ But the fact was, Mr Lenorme 
had irritated me, and I foolishly mixed you up with him.” 

“When I went into the studio, after you left it, this morning 
my lady,” Malcolm ventured, ‘‘he had his head between his 
hands and would not even look at me.” 

Florimel turned her face aside, and Malcolm thought she was 
sorry ; but she was only hiding a smile: she had not yet got 
beyond the kitten-stage of love, and was pleased to find she gave 
pain. 

“Tf your ladyship never had another true friend, Mr Lenorme 
is one,” added Malcolm. 

“What opportunity can you have had for knowing?” said 
Florimel. 

“T have been sitting to him every morning for a good many 

days,” answered Malcolm. “ /e is something like a man !” 


THE TWO DAIMONS. 135 


Florimel’s face flushed with pleasure. She liked to hear him 
praised, for he loved her. 

“Vou should have seen, my lady, the pains he took with that 
portrait! He would stare at the little picture you lent him of my 
lord for mintites, as if he were looking through it at something be- - 
hind it ; then he would get up and go and gaze at your ladyship on 
the pedestal, as if you were the goddess herself, able to tell him 
everything about your father ; and then he would hurry back to 
his easel, and give a touch or two to the face, looking at it all the 
time as if he loved it. It must have been a cruel pain that drove 
him to smear it as he did !” 

Florimel began to feel a little motion of shame somewhere in 
the mystery of her being. But to show that to her servant, would 
be to betray herself—the more that he seemed the painter’s friend. 

“T will ask Lord Liftore to go and see the portrait, and if he 
thinks it like, I will buy it,” she said. “Mr Lenorme is certainly 
very clever with his: brush.” 

Malcolm saw that she said this not to insult Lato but to 
blind her groom, and made no answer. 

“J will ride there with you to-morrow morning,” she added in 
conclusion, and moved on. 

Malcolm touched his hat, and dropped behind. But the next 
moment he was by her side again. 

“T beg your pardon, my lady, but would you allow me to sav 
one word more?” 

She bowed her head. 

“That woman Caley, I am certain, is not to be trusted. She 
does not love you, my lady.” 

“ How do you know that ?” asked Florimel, speaking steadily, 
but writhing inwardly with the knowledge that the warning was. 
too late. 

“T have tried her spirit,” answered Malcolm, “ and know that 
it is of the devil. She loves herself too much to be true.” 

After a little pause Florimel said, 

“T know you mean well, Malcolm ; but it is nothing to me 
whether she loves me or not. We don’t look for that now-a-days 
from servants.” 

“Tt is because I love you, my lady,” said Malcolm, “ that I 
know Caley does not. If she should get hold of anything your 
ladyship would not wish talked about,— 

“That she cannot,” said Florimel, but with an inward shudder. 
“She may tell the whole world all she can discover.” 

She would have cantered on as the words left her lips, but 
something in Malcolm’s looks held her. She turned pale; she © 


136 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


eS 
trembled : her father was looking at her as only once had sheseen — ; 


him—in doubt whether his child lied. The illusion was terrible. 
She shook in her saddle. ‘The next moment she was galloping 
along the grassy border of the heath in wild flight from her 
worst enemy, whom yet she could never by the wildest of flights 
escape ; for when, coming a little to herself as she approached a 
sand-pit, she pulled up, there was her enemy—neither before nor 
behind, neither above nor beneath nor within her: it was the self 


which had just tolda lie to the servant of whom she had so lately 


boasted that he never told one in his life. Then she grew angry. 
What had she done to be thus tormented? She a marchioness, 
thus pestered by her own menials—pulled in opposing directions 
by a groom and a maid. She would turn them both away, and 
have nobody about her, either to trust or suspect. 

She might have called them her good and her evil demon ; for 
she knew, that is, she had it somewhere about her, but did not 
look it out, that it was her own cowardice and concealment, her 
own falseness to the traditional, never-failing. courage of her 
house, her ignobility, and unfitness to represent the Colonsays— 
her double dealing in short, that had made the marchioness in: 
her own right the slave of her woman, the rebuked of her groom ! 

She turned and rode back, looking the other way as she passed 
Malcolm. , 

When they reached the top of the heath, riding along to meet 
them came Liftore—this time to Florimel’s consolation and com- 
fort: she did not like riding unprotected with a good angel at her 
heels. So glad was she that she did not even take the trouble to 
wonder how he had discovered the road she went. She never 
suspected that Caley had sent his lordship’s groom to follow her 
until the direction of her ride should be evident, but took his 
appearance without question, as a loverlike attention, and rode 
home with him, talking the whole way, and cherishing a feeling 
of triumph over both Malcolm and Lenorme. Had she not a 
protector of her own kind? Could she not, when they troubled. 
her, pass from their sphere into one beyond their ken? For the 
poor moment, the weak lord who rode beside her seemed to her 
foolish heart a tower of refuge. She was particularly gracious to 


her tower as they rode, and fancied again and again that perhaps _ 


the best way out of her troubles would be to encourage and at last 
accept him, so getting rid of honeyed delights and rankling stings 
together, of good and evil angels and low-bred lover at one sweep. 
Quiet would console for dulness, innocence for weariness. She 


would fain have a good conscience toward Society—that image - 


whose feet are of gold and its head a bag of chaff and sawdust. 


Dew, 
ne 


A CHASTISEMENT. 137 


Malcolm followed sick at heart that she should prove herself 
so shallow. Riding Honour, he had plenty of leisure to brood. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 
A CHASTISEMENT. 


WHEN she went to her room, there was Caley taking from a 
portmanteau the Highland dress which had occasioned so much. 
A note fell, and she handed it to her mistress. Florimel opened 
it, grew pale as she read it, and asked Caley to bring her a glass 
of water. No sooner had her maid left the room than she sprang 
to the door and bolted it. _Then the tears burst from her eyes, 
she sobbed despairingly, and but for the help of her handkerchief 
would have wailed aloud. When Caley returned, she answered 
to her knock that she was lying down, and wanted to sleep. 
She was, however, trying to force further communication from 
the note. In it the painter told her that he was going to set 
out the next morning for Italy, and that her portrait was at the 
shop of certain carvers and gilders, being fitted with a frame for 
which he had made drawings. Three times she read it, search- 
ing for some hidden message to her heart; she held it up be- 


_ tween her and the light; then before the fire till it crackled like 
- abit of old parchment; but all was in vain: by no device, 


intellectual or physical, could she coax the shadow of a meaning 
out of it, beyond what lay plain on the surface. She must, she 
would see him again. 

That night she was merrier than usual at dinner ; after it, sang 
ballad after ballad to please Liftore ; then went to her room and 
told Caley to arrange for yet a visit, the next morning, to Mr 
Lenorme’s studio. She positively must, she said; secure her 
father’s portrait ere the ill-tempered painter—all men of genius 
were hasty and unreasonable—should have destroyed it utterly, 
as he was certain to do before leaving—and with that she showed 
her Lenorme’s letter. Caley was all service, only said that this 
time she thought they had better go openly. She would see 
Lady Bellair as soon as Lady Lossie was in bed, and explain the 
thing to her. . 

The next morning therefore they drove to Chelsea in the 
carriage. When the door opened, Florimel walked straight up 
to the study. ‘There she saw no one, and her heart, which had 


138 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


been fluttering strangely, sank, and was painfully still, while her 


gaze went wandering about the room. It fell upon the pictured 
temple of Isis: a thick dark veil had fallen and shrouded the 


_whole figure of the goddess, leaving only the outline; and the 


form of the worshipping youth had vanished utterly: where he 
had stood, the tesselated pavement, with the serpent of life 
twining through it, and the sculptured walls of the temple, shone 
out clear and bare, as if Hyacinth had walked out into fhe desert 
to return no more. Again the tears gushed from the heart 


of Florimel: she had sinned against her own fame—had 


blotted out a fair memorial record that might have outlasted the 
knight of stone under the Norman canopy in Lossie church. 
Again she sobbed, again she choked down a cry that had else 
become a scream. 

Arms were around her. Never doubting whose the embrace, 
she leaned her head against his bosom, stayed her sobs with the 
one word “‘ Cruel!” and slowly opening her tearful eyes, lifted 
them to the face that bent over hers. It was Liftore’s. She 
was dumb with disappointment and dismay. It was a hateful 
moment. He kissed her forehead and eyes, and sought her 


mouth. She shrieked aloud. In her very agony at the loss of — 
one to be kissed by another !—and there! It was too degrad- — 


ing! too horrid ! 

At the sound of her cry someone started up at the otherend of 
the room. An easel with a large canvas on it fell, and a man 
came forward with great strides. Liftore let her go, with a mut- 
tered curse on the intruder, and she darted from the room into 
the arms of Caley, who had had her ear against the other side of 
the door. The same instant Malcolm received from his lordship 
a well planted blow between the eyes, which filled them with 
flashes and darkness. ‘The next, the earl was on the floor. 
The ancient fury of the Celt had burst up into the nineteenth 
century, and mastered a noble spirit. All Malcolm could after- 
wards remember was that he came to himself dealing Liftore 
merciless blows, his foot on his back, and his weapon the earl’s 
whip. His lordship, struggling to rise, turned up a face white 
with hate and impotent fury, 

“You damned flunkie!” he panted. “ T’ll have you shot like 
a mangy dog.” 

“ Meanwhile I will chastise you like an insolent nobleman,” 
said Malcolm, who had already almost recovered his self-posses- 
sion. You dare to touch my mistress!” 


And with the words he gave him one more stinging cut with 


the whip. 


<f CHASTISEMENT. 0 139 


“Stand off, and let it be man to man,” cried Liftore, with a 
fierce oath, clenching his teeth in agony and rage. 

“That it cannot be, my lord ; but I have had enough, and so 
I hope has your lordship,” said Malcolm ; and as he spoke he 
threw the whip to the other end of the room, and stood back. 
Liftore sprang to his feet, and rushed at him. Malcolm caught 
him by the wrist with a fisherman’s grasp. 

“My lord, I don’t want to kill. you. Take a warning, and 
let ill be, for fear of worse,” he said, and threw his hand from 
him with a swing that nearly dislocated his shoulder. 

The warning sufficed. His lordship cast him one scowl of 
concentrated hate and revenge, and leaving the room hurried also 
from the house. 

At the usual morning hour, Malcolm had ridden to Chelsea, 
hoping to find his friend in a less despairing and more companion- 
able mood than when he left him. To his surprise and disap- 
pointment he learned that Lenorme had sailed by the packet to 
Ostend the night before. He asked leave to go into the study. 
There on its easel stood the portrait of his father as he had last 
seen it—disfigured with a great smear of brown paint across the 
face. He knew that the face was dry, and he saw that the smear 
was wet: he would see whether he could not, with turpentine 
and a soft brush, remove the insult. In this endeavour he was 
so absorbed, and by the picture itself was so divided from the 
rest of the room, that he neither saw nor heard anything until 
Florimel cried out. 

Naturally, those events made him yet more dissatisfied with 
his sister’s position. Evil influences and dangers were on all 
sides of her+-the worst possible outcome being that, loving one 
man, she should marry another, and him such a man as Liftore. 
Whatever he heard in the servants’ hall, both tone and substance, 
only confirmed the unfavourable impression he had had from the 
first of the bold-faced countess. The oldest of her servants had, 
he found, the least respect for their mistress, although all had a 
certain liking for her, which gave their disrespect the heavier 
import. He must get Florimel away somehow. While all 
was right between her and the painter he had been less anxious 
about her immediate surroundings, trusting that Lenorme would 
erelong deliver her. But now she had driven him from the very 
country, and he had left no clue to follow him up by. His 
housekeeper could tell nothing of his purposes. The gardener 
and she were left in charge as a matter of course. He might be 
back in a week, or a year; she could not even conjecture. 

Seeming possibilities, in varied mingling with rank absurdities 


THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE, 


eA 


passing through Malcolm’s mind, as, after Liftore’s punishment, _ a 


he lifted the portrait, set it again upon its easel, and went on 
trying to clean the face of it—with no small promise of success. 


But as he made progress he grew anxious—lest with the defile. - e 
-ment, he should remove some of the colour as well: the painter 


~~ alone, he concluded at length could be trusted to restore the work 
he had ruined. 


He left the house, walked across the road to the river-bank, — 


and gave a short sharp whistle. In an instant Davy was in the 
dinghy, pulling for the shore. Malcolm went on board the 
yacht, saw that all was right, gave some orders, went ashore again, 
and mounted Kelpie. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


LIES. 


js In pain, wrath, and mortification, Liftore rode home. What 
| would the men at his club say if they knew that he had been — 


thrashed by a scoundrel of a groom for kissing his mistress ? 
The fact would soon be out: he must do his best to have it 
taken for what it ought to be—namely, fiction. It was the 
harder upon him that he knew himself no coward. He must 
; punish the rascal somehow—he owed it to society to punish 
Bio. him ; but at present he did not see how, and the first thing was 


to have the first word with Florimel ; he must see her before she 3 


saw the ruffian. He rode as hard as he dared to Curzon Street, 
sent his groom to the stables, telling him he should want the 
horses again before lunch, had a hot bath, of which he stood in 
Be dire need, and some brandy with his breakfast, and then, all 
-__ unfit for exercise as he was, walked to Portland Place. 
_-—~-_- Mistress and maid rode home together in silence. The 
moment Florimel heard Malcolm’s voice she had left the house. 
Caley following had heard enough to know that there was a 
scuffle at least going on in the study, and her eye witnessed 
against her heart that Liftore could have no chance with the 
detested groom if the respect of the latter gave way: would 
MacPhail thrash his lordship? If he did, it would be well she 
should know it. In the hoped event of his lordship’s marrying 


her mistress, it was desirable, not only that she should be in~ ; 
* favour with both of them, but that she should have some hold — ; 


iy : 
a 


. kk —s Pm) ae” 3S Te. 4 ot a Cee ys 7 ae Sa 7 
nD Ware crs tS a ee ee 
Pn ee i ., : States oa, 

> > r 4 . > 


a Son, 


LIES. 141 


upon each of a more certainly enduring nature: if she held 
secrets with husband and wife separately, she would be in clover 
for the period of her natural existence. 

As to Florimel, she was enraged at the liberties Liftore had 
taken with her. But alas! was she not in some degree in his 
power? He had found her there, and in tears! How did he 
come to be there? If Malcolm’s judgment of her was correct, 
Caley might have told him. Was she already false? She 
pondered within herself, and cast no look upon her maid until 
she had concluded how best to carry herself towards the earl. 
Then glancing at the hooded cobra beside her— 

“ What an awkward thing that Lord Liftore, of all moments, — 
should appear just then !” she said. “‘ How could it be?” 

“Tm sure I haven't an idea, my lady,” returned Caley. “ My 
lord has been always kind to Mr Lenorme, and I suppose he has 
been in the way of going to see him at work. Who would have 
thought my lord had been such an early riser! There are not 
many gentlemen like him now-a-days, my lady !_ Did your lady- 
ship hear the noise in the studio after you left it?” 

“T heard high words,” answered her mistress, “ —nothing 
more. How on earth did MacPhail come to be there as well?— 
From you, Caley, I will not conceal that his lordship behaved 
indiscreetly ; in fact he was rude; and I can quite imagine that 
MacPhail thought it his duty to defend me. It is all very 
awkward for me. Who could have imagined Am there, and 
sitting behind amongst the pictures! It almost makes me doubt 
whether Mr Lenorme be really gone.” 

“It seems to me, my lady,” returned Caley, “ that the man is 
always just where he ought not to be, always meddling with 
something he has no business with. I beg your pardon, my 
lady,” she went on, “ but wouldn’t it be better to get some staid 
elderly man for a groom, one who has been properly bred up to 
his duties and taught his manners in a gentleman’s stable? It 
is so odd to have a groom from a rough seafaring set—one who 
behaves like the rude fisherman he is, never having had to obey 
orders of lord or lady! The worst of it is, your ladyship will 
soon be the town’s talk if you have such a groom on such a horse 
after you everywhere.” 

Florimel’s face flushed. Caley saw she was angry, and held 
her peace. | 

Breakfast was hardly over, when Liftore walked in, looking 
pale, and, in spite of his faultless getup, somewhat disreputable 
for shame, secret pain, and anger do not favour a good carriage 
or honest mien. Florimel threw herself back in her chair—an_ 


142 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


Bers Bchon characteristic of the bold-faced spanteee ae held out her’ c . 
left hand to him in an expansive, benevolent sort of way. 2) Se 
eg “How dare you come into my presence, looking so well. 
____ pleased with yourself, my lord, after giving me such a fright this 
morning?” she said. “ You might at least have made sure that 
there was—that we were————” She could not bring herself to 
3 complete the sentence. | ar 
eae “My dearest girl!” said his lordship, not only delighted to — 
__-_ get off so pleasantly, but profoundly flattered by the implied 
ze: understanding, “I found you in tears, and how could I think of 


anything else? It may have been stupid, but I trust you will | 
____ think it pardonable.” 
. Caley had not fully betrayed her mistress to his lordship, ane om 
Sta he had, entirely to his own satisfaction, explained the liking of _ 


= ae lorimel for the society of the painter as the mere fancy of a girl 
for the admiration of one whose employment, although nothing 
- above the servile, yet gave him a claim something beyond that 
of a milliner or hair-dresser, to be considered a judge in matters | 
of appearance. As to anything more in the affair—and with him 
in the field—of such a notion he was simply incapable: he could 
not have wronged the lady he meant to honour with his hand, by 
BS: regarding it as within the bounds of the possible. i 
~ “Jt was no wonder I was crying,” said Florimel “A 7© 
seraph would have cried to see the state my father’s portrait 


was in.’ 

e “Your father’s portrait |” : 

es, “Yes. Did you not know? Mr Lenorme has been painting 
one from a miniature I lent him—under my supervision, of 


- course ; and just because I let fall a word that showed I was not 
__- altogether satisfied with the likeness, what should the wretched 
man do but catch up a brush full of filthy black paint, and \ 
___- smudge the face all over !” a 
eer “Oh, Lenorme will soon. set it to rights again. He’s not a 


by bad fellow though he does belong to the genus irritabile. Iwill — 
ue go about it this very day.” 

Ben's “You'll not find him, I’m sorry to say. There’s a note I had “4 
____ from him yesterday. And the picture’s quite unfit to be seen— 
utterly ruined. But I can’t think how you could miss it!” 

a ~ “To tell you the truth, Florimel, I had a bit of a scrimmage 

ta after you left me in the studio.” Here his lordship did his best 
‘to imitate a laugh. ‘Who should come rushing upon me out 
____ of the back regions of paint and canvas but that mad groom of — 
ae -yours! I don’t suppose you knew he was there?” 

* “Not I. I saw a man’s feet—that was all.” 


SIE Se 143 


“Well, there he was, for what reason the devil knows, perdu 
amongst the painter’s litter ; and when he heard your little startled 
cry—most musical, most melancholy—what should he fancy but 
that you were frightened, and he must rush to the rescue! And 
so he did with a vengeance: I don’t know when I shall quite 
forget the blow he gave me.” And again Liftore laughed, or 
thought he did. 

“He struck you!” exclaimed Florimel, rather astonished, but 
hardly able for inward satisfaction to put enough of indignation 
into her tone. 

“He did, the fellow !—But don’t say a word about it, for I - 


‘ thrashed him so unmercifully that, to tell the truth, I had to 


stop because I grew sorry for him. Iam sorry now. So I hope 
you will take no notice of it. In fact, I begin to like the rascal : 

you know I was never favourably impressed with him. By Jove! 
it is not every mistress that can have such a devoted attendant. 


I only hope his over-zeal in your service may never get you into 


some compromising position. He is hardly, with all his virtues, 
the proper servant for a young lady to have about her; he has 
had no training—no fvoger training at all, you see. But you 
must let the villain nurse himself for a day or two anyhow. It ~ 
would be torture to make him ride, after what I gave him.” 

His lordship spoke feelingly, with heroic endurance indeed ; 
and if Malcolm should dare give Azs account of the fracas, he 
trusted to the word of a gentleman to outweigh that of a groom. 

Not all to whom it may seem incredible that a nobleman 
should thus lie, are themselves incapable of doing likewise. Any 
man may put himself in training for a liar by doing things he 
would be ashamed to have known. The art is easily learned, 
and to practise it well is a great advantage to people with 
designs. Men of ability, indeed, if they take care not to try hard 
to speak the truth, will soon become able to lie as truthfully as 
any sneak that sells grease for butter to the poverty of the New 
Cut. 3 

It is worth remarking to him who can from the lie factual 
carry his thought deeper to the lie essential, that all the power of 
a lie comes from the truth ; it has none in itself. So strong is 
the truth that a mere resemblance to it is the source of strength 
to its opposite—until it be found that Ze is not the same. 

Florimel had already made considerable progress in the art, 
but proficiency in lying does not always develop the power of 
detecting it. She knew that her father had on one occasion 
struck Malcolm, and that he had taken it with the utmost gentle- 
ness, confessing himself in the wrong. Also she had the imp 


ee cae 
ei | Biden: ve 


a baa ee THE MARQUIS € OF LOSSIE. 
_ sion that for a menial to lift his hand against a gentleman, even 
in self-defence, was a thing unheard of. The blow Malcolm had ~ 
- struck Liftore was for her, not himself. Therefore, while her 
confidence in Malcolm’s courage and prowess remained un- ~—— 
shaken, she was yet able to believe that Liftore had done as he 
said, and supposed that Malcolm had submitted. In her heart- 
e=)she pitied without despising him. 

Caley herself took him the message that he would not be a 
wanted. As she delivered it, she smiled an evil smile and 
dropped a mocking courtesy, with her gaze well fixed on his two 
© black eyes and the great bruise between them. = 
-_When Liftore mounted to accompany Lady Lossie, it took all 
____ the pluck that belonged to his high breed to enable him to smile 
_and smile, with twenty counsellors in different parts of his body 

feelingly persuading him that he was at least a liar. As they 
rode, Florimel asked him how he came to be at the studio that 
morning. He told her that he had wanted very much to see her 
portrait before the final touches were given it. He could have 
made certain suggestions, he believed, that no one else could. | 
He had indeed, he confessed—and felt absolutely virtuous in 
____ doing so, because here he spoke a fact—heard from his aunt that 
_ Florimel was to be there that morning for the last time: it was 
therefore his only chance; but he had expected to be there 
~ hours before she was out of bed. For the rest, he hoped he had 
been -punished enough, seeing her rascally groom—and once = am 
~ more his lordship laughed peculiarly—had but just failed of | 
breaking his arm ; it was all he could do to hold the reins, 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 
AN OLD ENEMY. 


One Sunday evening-—it must have been just while Malcolm 
and Blue Peter stood in the Strand listening to a voluntary that 
filled and overflowed an otherwise empty church—a short, stout, 
elderly woman was walking lightly along the pavement of a street 
of small houses, not far from a thoroughfare which, crowded like 
a market the night before, had now two lively borders only—of ae 
_ hoiiday-makers mingled with church-goers. The bellsforevening 
__. prayers were ringing. The sun had vanished behind the na - 
and steam of London ; indeed he aes have set—it was hard tom 


AN OLD ENEMY. “145 


Say without consulting the almanac: but it was not dark yet. 
The lamps in the street were lighted, however, and also in the 


church she passed. She carried a small bible in her hand, folded 


in a pocket-handkerchief, and looked a decent woman from the 
country. Her quest was a place where the minister said his 
prayers and did not read them out of a book: she had been 
brought up a Presbyterian, and had prejudices in favour of what 
she took for the simpler form of worship. Nor had she gone 
much farther before she came upon a chapel which seemed to 
promise all she wanted. She entered, and a sad-looking woman 
showed her to a seat. She sat down square, fixing her eyes at 
once on the pulpit, rather dimly visible over many pews, as if it 


were one of the mountains that surrounded her Jerusalem. The 


place was but scantily lighted, for the community at present could 
ill afford to burn daylight. When the worship commenced, and 
the congregation rose to sing, she got up with a jerk that showed 
the duty as unwelcome as unexpected, but seemed by the way 
she settled herself in her seat for the prayer, already thereby re- 
conciled to the differences between Scotch church-customs and 
English chapel-customs. She went to sleep softly, and woke 
warily as the prayer came to a close. 

While the congregation again sang, the minister who had 
officiated hitherto left the pulpit, and another ascended to preach. 
When he began to read the text, the woman gave a little start, 
and leaning forward, peered very hard to gain a satisfactory sight 
of his face between the candles on each side of it, but without 
success; she soon gave up her attempted scrutiny, and thence- 
forward seemed to listen with marked attention. The sermon 
was a simple, earnest, at times impassioned appeal to the hearts 
and consciences of the congregation. ‘There was little attempt 
in it at the communication of knowledge of any kind, but the 
most indifferent hearer must have been aware that the speaker 


was earnestly straining after something. ‘To those who understood, © 


it was as if he would force his way through every stockade of 
prejudice, ditch of habit, rampart of indifference, moat of sin, 
wall of stupidity, and curtain of ignorance, until he stood face to 
face with the conscience of his hearer. 

“Rank Arminianism!” murmured the woman. ‘“ Whaur’s the 
gospel o that?” But still she listened with seeming intentness, 
while something of wonder mingled with the something else that 
set in motion every live wrinkle in her forehead, and made her 
eyebrows undulate like writhing snakes. 

At length the preacher rose to eloquence, an eloquence inspired 
by the hunger of his scul after truth eternal, and the love he bore 

K 


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re 


146 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE. 


to his brethren who fed on husks—an eloquence innocent of the 
tricks of elocution or the arts of rhetoric: to have discovered 
himself using one of them would have sent him home to his knees 
in shame and fear—an eloquence not devoid of discords, the strings 
of his instrument being now slack with emotion, now tense with 
vision, yet even in those discords shrouding the essence of all 
harmony. When he ceased, the silence that followed seemed 
instinct with thought, with that speech of the spirit which no 
longer needs the articulating voice. 

“Tt canna be the stickit minister!” said the woman to herself. 

The congregation slowly dispersed, but she sat motionless until 
all were gone, and the sad-faced woman was putting out the lights. 
Then she rose, drew near through the gloom, and asked her the 
name of the gentleman who had given them such a grand sermon. 
The woman told her, adding that, although he had two or three 
times spoken to them at the prayer meeting—such words of com- 
fort, the poor soul added, as she had never in her life heard 
before—this was the first time he had occupied the pulpit. The 
woman thanked her, and went out into the street. 

“God bless me!” she said to herself, as she walked away; “1 
ts the stickit minister! Weel, won’ers ‘ll never cease. The sa 
o’ mirracles ’ill be come back, I’m thinkin’!” And she laughed 
an oily contemptuous laugh in the depths of her profuse person. 


What caused her astonishment need cause none to the thought-. 


ful mind, The man was no longer burdened with any anxiety as 
to his reception by his hearers ; he was hampered by no necro- 
mantic agony to raise the dead letter of the sermon buried in the 
tail-pocket of his coat; he had thirty years more of life, and a 
whole granary filled with such truths as grow for him who is ever 
breaking up the clods of his being to the spiritual sun and wind 
and dew ; and above all he had an absolute yet expanding con- 
fidence 1 in his Father in heaven, and a tender love for everything 
human. The tongue of the dumb had been in training for song. 
And first of all he had learned to be silent while he had nought 
to reveal. He had been trained to babble about religion, but 
through God’s grace had failed in his babble, and that was in itself 
asuccess. He would have made one of the swarm that year after 
year cast themselves like flies on the burning sacrifice that they may 
live on its flesh, with evil odours extinguishing the fire that should 
have gone up in flame; but a burning coal from off the altar had 
been laid on his lips, ‘and had silenced them in torture. For 
thirty years he had held his peace, until the word of God had 
become as a fire in his bones: it was now breaking forth in 
flashes, 


AN OLD ENEMY. 17 


On the Monday, Mrs Catanach sought the shop of the deacon 
that was an ironmonger, secured for herself a sitting in the chapel 
for the next half-year, and prepaid the sitting. 

““Wha kens,” she said to herself, “what birds may come to 
gether worms an’ golachs (dee¢/es) aboot the boody-craw (scare- 
crow), Sanny Grame !” 

She was one to whom intrigue, founded on the knowledge of 
private history, was as the very breath of her being; she could 
not exist in composure without it. Wherever she went, therefore 
—and her changes of residence had not been few—it was one of 
her first cares to enter into connection with some religious com- 
munity, first that she might have scope for her calling—that of a 
midwife, which in London would probably be straightened towards 
that of mere monthly nurse—and next that thereby she might _ 
have good chances for the finding of certain weeds of occult _ 
power that spring mostly in walled gardens, and are rare on the 
roadside—poisonous things mostly, called generically secrets. 

At this time she had been for some~painful months in posses- 
sion of a most important one—painful, I say, because all those 
months she had discovered no possibility of making use of it. 
The trial had been hard. Her one passion was to drive the dark . 
horses of society, and here she had been sitting week after week 
on the coach-box over the finest team she had ever handled, 
ramping and “foming tarre,” unable to give them their heads 
because the demon-grooms had disappeared and left the looped 
traces dangling from their collars. She had followed Florimel 
from Portlossie—to Edinburgh, and then to London, but not yet 
had seett how to approach her with probable advantage. In the 
meantime she had renewed old relations with a certain herb- 
doctor in Kentish Town, at whose house she was now accommo- 
dated. ‘There she had already begun to entice the confidences 


of maid-servants, by use of what evil knowledge she had, and ~ 


pretence to more, giving herself out as a wise woman. Her faith 
never failed her that, if she but kept handling the fowls of cir-_ 
cumstance, one or other of them must at length drop an egg of 
opportunity in her lap. When she stumbled. upon the school- 
master, preaching in a chapel near her own haunts, she felt some- 
thing more like a gust of gratitude to the dark power that sat 
behind and pulled the strings of events—for thus she saw through 
her own projected phantom the heart of the universe—than she 
had ever yet experienced. If there were such things as special 
providences, here, she said, was one; if not, then it was better 
luck than she had looked for. The main poimt in it was that the 
dominie seemed likely after all to turn out a popular preacher; 


148 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


then beyond a doubt other Scotch people would gather to him; 
this or that person might turn up, and anyone might turn out 
useful ; one thread might be knotted to another, until all together 
had made a clue to guide her straight through the labyrinth to 
the centre, to lay her hand on the collar of the demon of the 
house of Lossie. It was the biggest game of her life, and had 
been its game long before the opening of my narrative. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 
THE EVIL GENIUS. 


WHEN Malcolm first visited Mr Graham, the schoolmaster had 
already preached two or three times in the pulpit of Hope 
Chapel. His ministrations at the prayer-meetings had led to 
this. For every night on which he was expected to speak, there 
were more people present than on the last; and when the 
deacons saw this, they asked him to preach on the Sundays. 
After two Sundays they came to him in a body, and besought 
him to become a candidate for the vacant pulpit, assuring him 
of success if he did so. He gave a decided refusal, however, 
nor mentioned his reasons. His friend Marshal urged him, 
pledging himself for his income to an amount which would have 
been riches to the dominie, but in vain. ‘Thereupon the silk- 
-mercer concluded that he must have money, and, kind man as 
he was, grew kinder in consequence, and congratulated him on 
his independence. 

_ “YT depend more on the fewness of my wants than on any 
earthly store for supplying them,” said the dominie. 

Marshal’s thermometer fell a little, but not his anxiety to 
secure services which, he insisted, would be for the glory of God 
and the everlasting good of perishing souls. The schoolmaster 
only smiled queerly and held his peace. 

He consented, however, to preach the next Sunday, and on 
the Monday, consented to preach the next again. For several 
weeks the same thing occurred. But he would never promise on 
a Sunday, or allow the briefest advertisement to be given con- 
cerning him. All said he was feeling his way. 

Neither had he, up to this time, said a word to Malcolm about 
the manner in which his Sundays were employed, while yet he 
talked much about a school he had opened in a room occupied 


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IHE EVIL GENIUS. 149 


in the evenings by a debuting club, where he was teaching such 
children of small shopkeepers and artisans as found their way to 
him—in part through his connection with the chapel-folk. When 
Malcolm had called on a Sunday, his landlady had been able to 
tell him nothing more than that Mr Graham had gone out at 
such and such an hour—she presumed to church ; and when he 


had once or twice expressed a wish to accompany him wherever | 


he went to worship, Mr Graham had managed somehow to let 
him go without having made any arrangement for his doing so. 
On the evening after his encounter with Liftore, Malcolm 
visited the schoolmaster, and told him everything about the 
affair. He concluded by saying that Lizzie’s wrongs had loaded 
the whip far more than his sister’s insult; but that he was very 
doubtful whether he had had any right to constitute himself the 
avenger of either after such a fashion. Mr Graham replied that 
a man ought never to be carried away by wrath, as he had so 
often sought to impress upon him, and not without success: but 
that, in the present case, as the rascal deserved it so well, he did 
not think he need trouble himself much. At the same time he 
ought to remind himself that the rightness or wrongness of any 


particular act was of far less consequence than the rightness or 
wrongness of the will whence sprang the act; and that, while no 


man could be too anxious as to whether a contemplated action 
ought or ought not to be done, at the same time no man could 
do anything absolutely right until he was one with him whose 
was the only absolute self-generated purity—that is, until God 
dwelt in him and he in God. 

Before he left, the schoolmaster had acquainted him with all 
that portion of his London history which he had hitherto kept 
from him, and told him where he was preaching. 

When Caley returned to her mistress after giving Malcolm the 
message that she did not require his services, and reported the 
condition of his face, Florimel informed her of the chastisement 
he had received from Liftore, and desired her to find out for her 
how he was, for she was anxious about him. Somehow Florimel 
felt sorrier for him than she could well understand, seeing he was 
but a groom—a great lumbering fellow, all his life used to hard 
knocks, which probably never hurt him. That her mistress 
should care so much about him added yet an acrid touch to 
Caley’s spite; but she put on her bonnet and went to the 
mews, to confer with the wife of his lordship’s groom, who, 
although an honest woman, had not yet come within her dislike, 
She went to make her inquiries, however, full of grave doubt as 
to his lordship’s statement to her mistress; and the result of 


iso * THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


them was a conviction that, beyond his facial bruises, of which 
Mrs Merton had heard no explanation, Malcolm had had no 
hurt. This confirmed her suspicion that his lordship had 
received what he professed to have given: from a window she 
had seen him mount his horse; and her woman’s-fancy for him, 
while it added to her hate of Malcolm, did not prevent her from 
thinking of the advantage the discovery might bring in the prose- 
cution of her own schemes. But now she began to fear Malcolm 


a little as well as hate him. And indeed he was rather a ~ 


dangerous person to have about, where all but himself had 


secrets more or less bad, and one at least had dangerous ones— ~ 
as Caley’s conscience, or what poor monkey-rudiment in her did~ 
duty for one, in private asserted. Notwithstanding her hold upon” 


her: mistress, she would not have felt it quite safe to let her know 
all her secrets. She would not have liked to say, for instance, 
how often she woke suddenly with a little feeble wail sounding 
in the ears that fingers cannot stop, or to confess that it cried 
out against a double injustice, that of life and that of death: she 
had crossed the border of the region of horror, and went about 
with a worm coiled in her heart, like a centipede in the stone of 
a peach. 

“Merton’s wife knows nothing, my lady,” she said on her 
return. ‘‘I saw the fellow in the yard going about much as 
usual. He will stand a good deal of punishing, I fancy, my 
lady—like that brute of a horse he makes such a fuss with. I 
can't help wishing, for your ladyship’s sake, we had never set 


eyes on him. He'll do us alla mischief yet before we get rid ~ 


of him. Ive had a hinstine’ of it, my lady, from the first moment 
I set eyes on him ;” Caley’s speech was never classic ; when she 
"was excited it was low.—“ And when I ’ave a hinstine’ of any- 
think, he’s not a dog as barks for nothink. Mark my words— 
and I’m sure I beg your pardon, my lady—but that man will 
bring shame on the house. He's that arrergant an’ interferin’ as 
is certain sure to bring your ladyship into public speech an’ a 
scandal: things will come to be spoke, my lady, that hadn’t 
ought to be mentioned. Why, my lady, he must ha’ struck his 
lordship, afore he’d ha’ give him two such black eyes as them! 
And him that good-natured an’ condescendin’ !—I’m sure I don’t 
know what’s to come on it, but your ladyship might cast a 
thought on the rest of us females as can’t take the liberties of 
born ladies without sufferin’ for it. Think what the world will 
say of ws. It’s hard, my lady, on the likes of us.” 


But Florimel was not one to be talked into doing what she 


did not choose. Neither would she to her maid render her 


CONF¥UNCTIONS. 151 


reasons for not choosing. She had repaired her fortifications, 
strengthened herself with Liftore, and was confident. 

“The fact is, Caley,” she said, “I have fallen in love with 
Kelpie, and never mean to part with her—at least till I can ride 
her—or she kills me. So I can’t do without MacPhail. And I 
hope she won’t kill him before he has persuaded her to let me 
mount her. The man must go with the mare. Besides, he is 
such a strange fellow, if I turned him away I should quite expect 
him to poison her before he left.” 

The maid’s face grew darker. That her mistress had the 
slightest intention of ever mounting that mare she did not find 
herself fool enough to believe, but of other reasons she could 
spy plenty behind. And such there truly were, though none of 
the sort which Caley’s imagination, swift to evil, now supplied. 
The kind of confidence she reposed in her groom, Caley had no 
faculty for understanding, and was the last person to whom her 
mistress could impart the fact of her father’s leaving her in 
charge to his young henchman. To the memory of her father 
she clung, and so far faithfully that, even now when Malcolm 
had begun to occasion her a feeling of awe and rebuke, she did 
not the less confidently regard him as her good genius that he 
was in danger of becoming an unpleasant one. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 
CONJUNCTIONS, 


As the days passed on, and Florimel heard nothing of Lenorme, 
the uneasiness that came with the thought of him gradually 
diminished, and all the associations of opposite complexion re- 
turned. Untrammelled by fear, the path into a scaring future 
seeming to be cut off, her imagination began to work in the 
quarry of her late experience, shaping its dazzling material into 
gorgeous castles, with foundations deep-dug in the air, wherein 
lorded the person and gifts and devotion of the painter. When 
lost in such blissful reveries, not seldom moments arrived in which 
she imagined herself—even felt as if she were capable, if not of 
marrying Lenorme in the’flushed face of outraged society, yet of 
fleeing with him from the judgment of the all but all-potent — 
divinity to the friendly bosom of some blessed isle of the southern 
seas, whose empty luxuriance they might change into luxury, and 
there living a long harmonious idyll of wedded love, in which old 


152 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


age and death should be provided against by never taking them 
into account. This mere fancy, which, poor in courage as it 
was in invention, she was far from capable of carrying into effect, 


yet seemed to herself the outcome and sign of a whole world of — 
devotion in her bosom. If one of the meanest of human condi- ~ 


tions is conscious heroism, paltrier yet is heroism before the fact, 
incapable of self-realization! But even the poorest dreaming 


has its influences, and the result of hers was that the attentions — 


of Liftore became again distasteful to her. And no wonder, for 
indeed his lordship’s presence in the actual world made a poor 
show beside that of the painter in the ideal world of the woman 
who, if she could not with truth be said to love him, yet 
certainly had a powerful fancy for him: the mean phrase is good 
enough, even although the phantom of Lenorme roused in her 
all the twilight poetry of her nature, and the presence of Liftore 
set her whole consciousness in the perpendicular shadowless 
gas-light of prudence and self-protection. 

The pleasure of her castle-building was but seldom interrupted 


by any thought of the shamefulness of her behaviour to him. ~ 
That did not matter much! She could so easily make up for | 


all he had suffered! Her selfishness closed her eyes to her own 
falsehood. Had she meant it truly she would have been right 


both for him and for herself. Tio have repented and become as 


noble a creature as Lenorme was capable of imagining her--not 
to say as God had designed her, would indeed have been to 
make up for all he had suffered. But the poor blandishment she 
contemplated as amends, could render him blessed only while its 
Intoxication blinded him to the fact that it meant nothing of 
what it ought to mean, that behind it was no entire, heart-filled 
woman. Meantime, as the past, with its delightful imprudences, 
its trembling joys, glided away, swiftly widening the space be- 
tween her and her false fears and shames, and seeming to draw 
with it the very facts themselves, promising to obliterate at length 
all traces of them, she gathered courage; and as the feeling of 
exposure that had made the covert of Liftore’s attentions accept- 
able, began to yield, her variableness began to re-appear, and his 
lordship to find her uncertain as ever. Assuredly, as his aunt 
said, she was yet but a girl incapable of knowing her own mind, 
and he must not press his suit. Nor had he the spur of jealousy 
or fear to urge him: society regarded her as his; and the 
shadowy repute of the bold-faced countess intercepted some 
favourable rays which would otherwise have fallen upon the 


young, and beautiful marchioness from fairer luminaries even — 


than Liftore. 


CONYUNCTIONS. — 153 


But there was one good process, by herself little regarded, 
going on in Florimel: notwithstanding the moral discomfort 
oftener than once occasioned her by Malcolm, her confidence in 
him was increasing ; and now that the kind of danger threatening 
her seemed altered, she leaned her mind upon him not a little— 
and more than she could well have accounted for to herself on 
the only grounds she could have adduced—namely that he was 
an attendant authorized by her father, and, like herself, loyal to 
his memory and will ; and that, faithful as a dog, he would fly 
at the throat of anyone who dared touch her—of which she had 
had late proof, supplemented by his silent endurance of con- 
sequent suffering. Demon sometimes looked angry—when she 
teased him—had even gone so far a& to bare his teeth; but 
Malcolm had never shown temper. In a matter of imagined 
duty, he might presume—but that was a small thing beside the 
sense of safety his very presence brought with it. She shuddered 
indeed at the remembrance of one look he had given her, but that 
had been for no behaviour to himself ; and now that the painter 
was gone, she was clear of all temptation to the sort of thing 
that had caused it; and never, never more would she permit 
herself to be drawn into circumstances the least equivocal !—If 
only Lenorme would come back, and allow her to be his friend 
—his dest friend—his only young lady friend, leaving her at 
perfect liberty to do just as she liked, then all would be well— 
absolutely comfortable! In the meantime, life was endurable 
without him—and would be, provided Liftore did not make 
himself disagreeable. If he did, there were other gentlemen 
who might be induced to keep him in check: she would punish 
him—she knew how. She liked him better, however, than any 
of those. 

It was out of pure kindness to Malcolm, upon Liftore’s repre- 


sentation of how he had punished him, that for the rest of the- 


week she dispensed with his attendance upon herself. But he, 
unaware of the lies Liftore had told her, and knowing nothing, 
therefore, of her reason for doing so, supposed she resented 
the liberty he had taken in warning her against Caley, feared the 
breach would go on widening, and_ went about, if not quite 
downcast, yet less hopeful still, Everything seemed going 
counter to his desires. A whole world of work lay before him: 
—a harbour to build; a numerous fisher-clan to house as they 
ought to be housed; justice to do on all sides; righteous 
servants to appoint in place of oppressors; and, all over, 
to show the heavens more just than his family had in the past 
allowed them to appear; he had mortgages and other debts to 


Se ee een eres aes wey 
SF Sys. ea ei a ‘oN 


154 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


pay off—clearing his feet from fetters and his hands from 
manacles, that he might be the true lord of his people; he had 


Miss Horn to thank, and the schoolmaster to restore to the souls — 


and hearts of Portlossie ; and, next of all to his sister, he had 
old Duncan, his first friend and father, to find and minister to. 
Not a day passed, not a night did he lay down his head, without 
thinking of him. But the old man, whatever his hardships, and 
even the fishermen, with no harbour to run home to from the 
wild elements, were in no dangers to compare with such as 
threatened his sister. To set her free was his first business, and 
that business as yet refused to be done. Hence he was hemmed 
in, shut up, incarcerated in stubborn circumstance, from a long- 
reaching range of duties, calling aloud upon his conscience and 
heart to hasten with the first, that he might reach the second. 
What rendered it the more disheartening was, that, having dis: 
covered, as he hoped, how to compass his first end, the whole 
possibility had by his sister’s behaviour, and the consequent 
disappearance of Lenorme, been swept from him, leaving him 
more resourceless than ever. 

When Sunday evening came, he found his way to Hope 
Chapel, and walking in, was shown to a seat by a grimy-faced 
pew-opener. It was with strange feelings he sat there, thinking 
of the past, and looking for the appearance of his friend on the 
pulpit-stair. But his feelings would have been stranger still had he 
seenwho sat immediately in the pew behind him, watching him like 
acat watching a mouse, or rather like a half-grown kitten watching 
a rat, for she was a little frightened at him, even while resolved 
to have him. But how could she doubt her final success, when 


her plans were already affording her so much more than she had 4 


expected? Who would have looked for the great red stag himself 
to come browsing so soon about the scarecrow! He was too 
large game, however, to be stalked without due foresight. 


When the congregation was dismissed, after a sermon the - 


power of whose utterance astonished Malcolm, accustomed as 
he was to the schoolmaster’s best moods, he waited until the 


preaches was at liberty from the unwelcome attentions and vulgar 


congratulations of the riches and more forward of his hearers, 


_and then joined him to walk home with him.—He was followed 
to the schoolmaster’s lodging, and thence, an hour after, to his — 


own, by a little boy far too little to excite suspicion, the 
grandson of Mrs Catanach’s friend, the herb-doctor. 

Until now the woman had not known that Malcolm was in 
Tondon. When she learned that he was lodged so near Port- 
lund Place, she concluded that he was watching his sister, and 


CONYUNCTIONS. Iss 


chuckled over the idea of his being watched in turn by her. 
self. 

Every day for weeks after her declaration concerning the birth 
of Malcolm, had the mind of Mrs Catanach been exercised to 
the utmost to invent some mode of undoing her own testimony. 
She would have had no scruples, no sense of moral disgust, 
in eating every one of her words; but a magistrate and a 
lawyer had both been present at the uttering of them, and she 
feared the risk. Malcolm’s behaviour to her after his father’s 
death had embittered the unfriendly feelings she had cherished 
towards him for many years. While she believed him base-born, 
and was even ignorant as to his father, she had thought to secure 
power over him for the annoyance of the blind old man to whom 
she had committed him, and whom she hated with the hatred of 
a wife with whom for the best of reasons he had refused to 
live ; but she had found in the boy a rectitude over which 
although she had assailed it from his childhood, she could gain 
no influence. Either a blind repugnance in Malcolm’s soul, or 
a childish instinct of and revulsion from embodied evil, had held 
them apart. Even then it had added to her vile indignation 
that she regarded him as owing her gratitude for not having 
murdered him at the instigation of his uncle ; and when at length, 
to her endless chagrin, she had herself unwittingly supplied the 
only lacking link in the testimony that should raise him to rank 
and wealth, she imagined that by making affidavit to the facts 
she had already divulged, she enlarged the obligation infinitely, 
and might henceforth hold him in her hand a tool for further 
operations. When, therefore, he banished her from Lossie 
House, and sought to bind her to silence as to his rank by the 
conditional promise of a small annuity, she hated him with her 
whole huge power of hating. And now she must make speed, 
for his incognito in a great city afforded a thousandfold facility 
for doing him a mischief. And first she must draw closer a 
certain loose tie she had already looped betwixt herself and the 
household of Lady Bellair. This tie was the conjunction of her 
lying influence with the credulous confidence of a certain very 
ignorant and rather wickedly romantic scullery-maid, with whom, 
having in espial seen her come from the house she had scraped 
acquaintance, and to whom, for the securing of power over her 
through her imagination, she had made the strangest and most 
appalling disclosures. Amongst other secret favours, she had 
promised to compound for her a horrible mixture—some of 
whose disgusting ingredients, as potent as hard to procure, she 
named in her awe-stricken hearing—which, administered under 


156 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


certain conditions and with certain precautions, one of which — 


was absolute secrecy in regard to the person who provided it, 


must infallibly secure for her the affections of any man 


on whom she might cast a loving eye, and whom she could 
either with or without his consent, contrive to cause partake of 
the same. This girl she now sought, and from her learned all 
she knew about Malcolm. Pursuing her enquiries into the 
nature and composition of the household, however, Mrs Catanach 
soon discovered a far more capable and indeed less scrupulous 
associate and instrument in Caley. I will not introduce my 
reader to any of their evil councils, although, for the sake of my 
own credit, it might be well to be less considerate, seeing that 
many, notwithstanding the super-abundant evidence of history, 
find it all but impossible to believe in the existence of such 
moral abandonment as theirs. I will merely state concerning 
them, and all the relations of the two women, that Mrs Catanach 


assumed and retained the upper hand, in virtue of her superior 


knowledge, invention, and experience, gathering from Caley, as 
she had hoped much valuable information, full of reactions, and 


tending to organic development of scheme in the brain of the 


arch-plotter. But their désigns were so mutually favourable as 
to promise from the first a final coalescence in some common 
plan for their attainment. | 
Those who knew that Miss Campbell, as Portlossie regarded 
her, had been in reality Lady Lossie, and was the mother of 
Malcolm, knew as well that Florimel had no legal title even to 
the family cognomen ; but if his mother, and therefore the time 
of his mother’s death, remained unknown, the legitimacy of his 
sister would remain unsuspected even upon his appearance as 


the heir. Now there were but three besides Mrs Catanach and _ 
Malcolm who did know who was his mother, namely, Miss Horn, © 


Mr Graham, and a certain Mr Morrison, a laird and magistrate 
near Portlossie, an elderly man, and of late in feeble health. The 
lawyers the marquis had employed on his death-bed did not 


know: he had, for Florimel’s sake taken care that they should 


not. Upon what she knew and what she guessed of these facts 
regarded in all their relations according to her own theories 
of human nature the midwife would found a scheme of action. 


Doubtless she saw, and prepared for it, that after a certain. 


point should be reached the very similarity of their designs must 
cause a rupture between her and Caley ; neither could expect 


the other to‘endure such a rival near her hidden throne of in- 


fluence ; for the aim of both was power in a great family, with 
consequent money, and consideration, and midnight councils, 


a of i ee ee ee oe | ." —_- Cae 
ge, ee ee Re 
ane pet ; a set ag seer Py : 


abs 


TDI Nb ale aA ; “) 


AN INNOCENT PLOT. 157 
and the wielding of all the weapons of hint and threat and in- 
sinuation, ‘There was one difference, indeed, that in Caley’s 


eye money was the chief thing, while power itself was the Swed- 
enborgian hell of the midwife’s bliss. 


CHAPTER XXXVII 


AN INNOCENT PLOT. 


-Frorimet and Lady Clementina Thornicroft, the same who in 


the park rebuked Malcolm for his treatment of Kelpie, had met 
several times during the spring, and had been mutually attracted 
—Florimel as to a nature larger, more developed, more self- 
supporting than her own, and Lady Clementina as to one who, 
it was plain, stood in sore need of what countenance and encour- 


“agement to good and free action the friendship of one more 


experienced might afford her. Lady Clementina was but a few 
years older than Florimel, it is true, but had shown a courage 
which had already wrought her an unquestionable influence, and — 
that chiefly with the best. The root of this courage was com- 
passion. Her rare humanity of heart would, at the slightest 
appearance of injustice, drive her like an angel with a flaming 
sword against customs regarded, consciously or unconsciously, as 
the very buttresses of social distinction. Anything but a wise 
woman, she had yet so much in her of what is essential to all 
wisdom—love to her kind, that, if as yet she had done little but 
blunder, she had at least blundered beautifully. On every 
society that had for its declared end the setting right of wrong or 
the alleviation of misery, she lavished, and mostly wasted, her 
money. Every misery took to her the shape of a wrong. Hence 
to every mendicant that could trump up a plausible story, she 
offered herself a willing prey. Even when the barest-faced 
imposition was brought home to one of the race parasitical, her - 
first care was to find all possible excuse for his conduct: it was 
matter of pleasure to her friends when she stopped there, and 
made no attempt at absolute justification. 

Left like Florimel an orphan, but at a yet earlier age, she had 
been brought up with a care that had gone over into severity, 
against which her nature had revolted with an energy that 
gathered strength from her own repression of its signs ; and when 
she came of age, and took things into her own hands, she carried 


s ph sli ne olay 
i of Se 


~~ oe wiaks oS . <i el ‘i "aoe a ne et oe .. an 
* ‘ ; g se va 
a. z i a re 


158 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


herself in its eyes so oddly, yet with such sweetness and dignity 
and consistency in her oddest extravagances, that society honoured 
her even when it laughed at her, loved her, listened to het, 


applauded, approved—did everything except imitate her—which 
indeed was just as well, for else confusion would have been 


worse confounded. She was always rushing to*defence—with 
money, with indignation, with refuge. It would look like a 
caricature did I record the number of charities to ‘whieh she 
belonged, and the various societies which, in the exuberance of 
her passionate benevolence, she had projected and of necessity 
abandoned. Yet still the fire burned, for her changes were from 
no changeableness: through them all the fundamental operation 
of her character remained the same. ‘The case was that, for all 
her headlong passion for deliverance, she could not help dis- 
covering now and then, through an occasional self-assertion of 
that real good sense which her rampant and unsubjected benevo- 
lence could but overlay, not finally smother, that she was either 
doing nothing at all, or more evil than good. 

The lack of discipline in her goodness came out in this, at 
times. amusingly, that she would always at first side with the 
lower or weaker or worse. If a dog had torn a child, and was 
going to be killed in consequence, she would not only intercede 
for the dog, but absolutely side with him, mentioning this and 
that provocation which the naughty child must have given him 
ere he could have been goaded to the deed. Once when the 
schoolmaster in her village was going to cane a boy for cruelty 
to a cripple, she pleaded for his pardon on the ground that it 
was worse to be cruel than to be a cripple, and therefore more to 
be pitied. Everything painful was to her cruel, and softness and 
indulgence, moral honey and sugar and nuts to all alike, was the 
panacea for human ills. She could not understand that infliction 
might be loving kindness. On one occasion when a boy was 
caught in the act of picking her pocket, she told the policeman 
he was doing nothing of the sort—he was only searching fora 
lozenge for his terrible cough ; and in proof of her asserted con- 
viction, she carried him home with her, but lost him before 
morning, as well as the spoon with which he had eaten his gruel, 


As to her person I have already made a poor attempt at a 


describing it. She might have been grand but for loveliness. 
When she drew herself up in indignation, however, she would 
look grand for the one moment ere the blood rose to her cheek, 
and the water to her eyes. She would have taken the whole 
world to her infinite heart, and in unwisdom coddled it into 
corruption. Praised be the grandeur of the God who can endure 


yy, ae 
4 


AN INNOCENT PLOT. 159 


to make and see his children suffer. Thanks be to him for his 
north winds and his poverty, and his bitterness that falls upon 


‘the spirit that errs: let those who know him thus praise the 


Lord for his goodness. But Lady. Clementina had not yet 


descried the face of the Son of Man through the mists of Mount 
Sinai, and she was not one to justify the ways of God to men. 
Not the less was it the heart of God in her that drew her to the 
young marchioness, over whom was cast the shadow of a tree 


that gave but Peactul shelter. She liked her frankness, her 


activity, her daring, and fancied that, like herself, she was at 
noble feud with that infernal parody of the kingdom of heaven, 
called Society. She did not well understand her relation to 
Lady Bellair, concerning whom she was in doubt whether or not 


she was her legal guardian, but she saw plainly enough that the 
countess wanted to secure her for her nephew, and this nephew 
had about him a certain air of perdition, which even the catholic 


heart of Lady Clementina could not brook. She saw too that, 
being a mere girl, and having no scope of choice in the limited 
circle of their visitors, she was in great danger of yielding without 
a struggle, and she longed to take her in charge like:a poor little 
persecuted kitten, for the possession of which each of a family of 
children was contending. What if her father had belonged toa 
rowdy set, was that any reason why his innocent daughter should 
be devoured, body and soul and possessions, by those of the 
same set who had not yet perished in their sins? Lady Clemen- 
tina thanked Heaven that she came herself of decent people, 
who paid their debts, dared acknowledge themselves in the 
wrong, and were as honest as if they had been born peasants ; 
and she hoped a shred of the mantle of their good name had 
dropped upon her, big enough to cover also this poor little 
thing who had come of no such parentage. With her passion 
for redemption therefore, she seized every chance-of improving 
her acquaintance with Florimel, and it was her anxiety to gain 
such a standing in her favour as might further her coveted minis- 
tration, that had prevented her from bringing her charge of 
brutality against Malcolm as soon as she discovered whose 
groom he was: when she had secured her footing on the peak 
of her friendship, she would unburden her soul, and meantime 
the horse must suffer for his mistress—a conclusion in itself a 
great step in-advance, for it went dead against one of her most 
confidently argued principles, namely, that the pain of any 
animal is, in every sense, of just as much consequence as the 
pain of any other, human or inferior: pain is pain, she said; and 
equal pains are equal wherever they sting ;—in which she would 


a 


Re 
ave been right, I eink, i pain and suffering were the i” ae 


_ thing; but, knowing well that the same degree and even the 
same kind of pain means two very different | things in the foot 
+, and in the head, I refuse the proposition. — & 


enough to venture a proposal—namely, that she should accom- 
pany her to a small estate she had on the south coast, witha — 
little ancient house upon it—a strange place altogether, she said 7 F 
__—to spend a week or two in absolute quiet—only she must come 85 2 
___-alone—without even a maid: she would take none herself. This 
— she said because, with the instinct, if not quite insight, of a true 
nature, she could not endure the woman Caley. 
_ “ Will you come with me there for a fortnight ?” she concluded. 
“T shall be delighted,” returned Florimel, without a moment’s — 
Lesitation. “I am getting quite sick of London. There’s no x 
_ room init. And there’s the spring all outside, and can’t getin 
here! I shall be only too glad to go with you, you dear | 
creature !” *S 
“And on those hard terms—no maid, you know?” insisted 


Clementina. oe + 
“The only thing wanted to make the pleasure complete! i = 


shall be charmed to be rid of her.” | a 
“‘T am glad to see you so independent.” oe 
“You don’t imagine me such a baby as not to be able to get he 

on without a maid! You should have seen me in Scotland! I 

P hated having a woman about me then. And indeed I don’t like fe E 

it a bit better now— only everybody has one, and your clothes _ . 

-_want looking after,” added Florimel, thinking what a weight it — 

tet would be off her if ite could get rid of Caley altogether. “—But “as 
I should like to take my horse,” she said. “I don’t know what 

— Ishould do i in the country without Abbot.” Bae 

“Of course ; we must have our horses,” returned Clementina, fa 

Niche had better bring your groom.” ie 

_ Please. You will find him very useful. He can do an ie 

thing and everything—and i is so kind and helpful !” 5 

1 hee Except to his horse,” Clementina was on the point of saying, an a 

— but thought again she would first secure the mistress, and bids. i« 

her time to attack the man. Ne 

Before they parted, the two ladies had talked themselves inte 

i -ecstasies over the anticipated enjoyments of their scheme. Tt 

must be carried out at once. : 

| “Let us tell nobody,” said Lady Clementina, “ and set off a 

to-morrow.” mes 
tee Enchanting | !” cried Florimel, in full response. aan 


AN INNOCENT PLOT. 161 


Then her brow clouded. 
“There is one difficulty, though,” she said. ‘“—No man 


could ride Kelpie with a led horse; and if we had to employ 
_ another, Liftore would be sure to hear where we had gone.” 


“That would spoil all,’ said Clementina. ‘ But how much 
better it would be to give that poor creature a rest, and bring 
the other I see him on sometimes !” 

** And by the time we came back, there would not be a living 
creature, horse or man, anything bigger than a rat, about the 
stable. Kelpie herself would be dead of hunger, if she hadn’t 
been shot. No, no; where Malcolm goes Kelpie must go. 
Besides, she’s such fun—you can’t think !” 

“Then I'll tell you what!” cried Clementina, after a moment’s 
pause of perplexity: “we'll ~zde down! It’s not a hundred 
miles, and we can take as many days on the road as we please.” 

“ Better and better!” cried Florimel. ‘‘ We'll run away with 


- each other.—But what will dear old Bellair say ?” 


“Never mind her,” rejoined Clementina. ‘She will have 
nothing to say. You can write and tell her as much as will keep 
her from being really alarmed. Order your man to get every- 
thing ready, and I will instruct mine. He is such a staid old 
fellow, you know, he will be quite protection. ‘To-morrow morn- 
ing we shall set out together for a ride in Richmond Park—that 
lying in our way. You can leave a letter on the breakfast- table, 
saying you are gone with me for a little quiet. You're not in 
chancery—are you?” 

“1 don't know,” answered Florimel. ‘I suppose I’m all right. 
—Any how, whether I’m in chancery or not, here I am, and 
going with you; and if chancery don’t like it, chancery may 
come and fetch me.” 

“Send anything you think you may want to my house. I 
shall get a box ready, and we will write from some town on our 
way to have it sent there, and then we can write for it from The _ 
Gloom. We shall find all mere zecessaries there.” 

So the thing was arranged: they would start quite early the 
next morning ; and that there might be no trouble in the streets, 
Malcolm should go before with Kelpie, and wait them in the 
nark, 


162 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE. 


CHAPTER XXXVIITL 
THE JOURNEY. 


MALCOLM was overjoyed at the prospect of an escape to the 
country—and yet more to find that his mistress wanted to have 
him with her—more still to understand that the journey was to 
be kept a secret. Perhaps now, far from both Caley and Liftore, 
he might say something to open her eyes; yet how should he 
avoid the appearance of a tale-bearer? | 


It was a sweet fresh morning, late in the spring—those love- — 


liest of hours that unite the seasons, like the shimmering ques- 
tion of green or blue in the feathers of a peacock. He had set 
out an hour before the rest, and now, a little way within the 
park, was coaxing Kelpie to stand, that he might taste the morn- 
ing in peace. THe sun was but a few degrees above the horizon, 
shining with all his heart, and the earth was taking the shine 
with all hers. “TI too am light,” she was saying, “although I 
can but receive it.” The trees were covered with baby-leaves, 
half wrapped in their swaddling clothes, and their breath was a 
warm aromatic odour in the glittering air. The air and the light 
seemed one, and Malcolm felt as if his soul were breathing the 
light into its very depths, while his body was drinking the soft 
spicy wind. For Kelpie, she was as full of life as if she had 
been meant for a winged horse, but by some accident of nature 
the wing-cases had never opened, and the wing-life was for 
ever trying to get out at her feet. The consequent restlessness, 
where there was plenty of space as here, caused Malcolm no 
more discomposure than, in his old fishing-days, a gale with 
plenty of sea-room. And the song of the larks was one with the 
light and the air. The budding of the trees was their way of 
singing ; but the larks beat them at that. “What a power of 
joy,” thought Malcolm, “there must be in God, to be able to 
keep so many larks so full of bliss!” He was going to say— 
“without getting tired ;” but he saw that it was the eternal joy 
itself that bubbled from their little fountains: weariness there 
would be the silence of all song, would be death, utter vanish- 
ment to the gladness of the universe. The sun would go out like 
a spark upon burnt paper, and the heart of man would forget the 
sound of laughter. Then he said to himself: “ The larks do not 
make their own singing ; do mortals make their own sighing?” 
And he saw that at least they might open wider the doors of 
their hearts to the Perseus Joy that comes to slay the grief-’ 


A 


“THE FOURNEY, - 163 


‘monsters. Then he thought how his life had been widening out 


with the years. He could not say that it was now more pleasant 
than it had been ; he had Stoicism enough to doubt whether it 
would ever become so from any mere change of circumstances. 
Dangers and sufferings that one is able for, are not misfortunes 
or even hardships—so far from such, that youth delights in them. 
Indeed he sorely missed the adventure of the herring fishing. 


‘Kelpie, however, was as good as a stiff gale. If only all were 


well with his sister! ‘Then he would go back to Portlossie and 
have fishing enough. But he must be patient and follow as he 
was led. At three and twenty, he reflected, Milton was content 
to seem to himself but a poor creature, and was careful only to 
be ready for whatever work should hereafter be required of him: 
such contentment, with such hope and resolve at the back of it, 


he saw to be the right and the duty both of every man. He 


whose ambition is to be ready when he is wanted, whatever the 
work may be, may wait not the less watchful that he is content. 
His heart grew lighter, his head clearer, and by the time the two. 
ladies with their attendant appeared, he felt such a masterdom 
over Kelpie as he had never felt before. ° 

They rode twenty miles that day with ease, putting up at the 
first town. ‘The next day they rode about the same distance. 
They next day they rode nearly thirty miles. On the fourth, 
with an early start, and a good rest in the middle, they accom- 
plished a yet greater distance, and at night arrived at The Gloom, 
Wastbeach—after a journey of continuous delight to three at 
least of the party, Florimel and Malcolm having especially 
enjoyed that portion of it which led through Surrey, where - 
England and Scotland meet.and mingle in waste, heathery moor, 
and rich valley. Much talk had passed between the ladies, and 
Florimel had been set thinking about many things, though cer- 
tainly about none after the wisest fashion. : 

A young half-moon was still up when, after riding miles _ 
through pine woods, they at length drew near the house. Long 
before they reached it, however, a confused noise of dogs met 
them in the forest. Clementina had written to the housekeeper, 
and every dog about the place, and the dogs were multitudinous, 
had been expecting her all. day, had heard the sound of their 
horses’ hoofs miles off, and had at once begun to announce her 
approach. Nor were the dogs the only cognisant or expectant 
animals. Most of the creatures about the place understood that 
something was happening, and probably associated it with their 
mistress ; for almost every live thing knew her—from the rheu- 
matic cart-horse, forty years of age, and every whit as respectable 


Or age eh eS Sah Ree, ee B42, OA ee Oe. ee ok ee ee a 
EB x th te ge ithe Ne ats ae SE la ae Pe ee 


Ae in: an eal a 
yt 


164 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


ol ae ota 


1 


in Clementina’s eyes as her father’s old butler, to the wild cats 
that haunted the lofts and garrets of the old Elizabethan hunting- 
lodge. 

When they dismounted, the ladies could hardly get into the 
house for dogs; those which could not reach their mistress, 
turned to Florimel, and came swarming about her and leaping 
upon her, until, much as she liked animal favour, she would 


gladly have used her whip—but dared not, because of the pre- 


sence of their mistress. If the theories of that mistress allowed 
them anything of a moral nature, she was certainly culpable in 
refusing them their right to a few cuts of the whip. 

Mingled with all the noises of dogs and horses, came a soft 
nestling murmur that filled. up the interspaces of sound which 
even their tumult could not help leaving. Florimel was too tired 
to hear it, but Malcolm heard it, and it filled all the interspaces 
of his soul with a speechless delight. He knew it for the still 
small voice of the awful sea. 

Florimel scarcely cast a glance around the dark old-fashioned 
room into which she was shown, but went at once to bed, and 
when the old housekeeper carried her something from the supper- 
table at which she had been expected, she found her already fast 
asleep. By the time Malcolm had put Kelpie to rest, he also 
was a little tired, and lay awake no moment longer than his 
sister. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 
DISCIPLINE. 


Wuat with rats and mice, and cats and owls, and creaks and 
cracks, there was no quiet about the place from night to morn- 
ing; and what with swallows and rooks, and cocks and kine, and 
horses and foals; and dogs and pigeons and peacocks, and 
guinea-fowls and turkeys and geese, and every farm creature but 
pigs, which, with all her zootrophy, Clementina did not like, no 
quiet from morning to night. But if there was no quiet, there. 
was plenty of calm, and the sleep of neither brother nor sister 
was disturbed. 

Florimel awoke in the sweetest concert of pigeon-murmuring, 
duck-diplomacy, fowl-foraging, foal-whinnering—the word wants 
an 7 in it—and all the noises of rural life. The sun was shining 


DISCIPLINE. 165 


into the room by a window far off at the further end, bringing 
with him strange sylvan shadows, not at once to be interpreted. 
He must have been shining for hours, so bright and steady did 
he shine. She sprang out of bed—with no lazy London resur- 
rection of the old buried, halfsodden corpse, sleepy and 
ashamed, but with the new birth of the new day, refreshed and 


‘strong, like a Hercules-baby. A few aching remnants of stiffness 


was all that was left of the old fatigue. It was a heavenly joy 
to think that no Caley would come knocking at her door. She 
glided down the long room to the sunny window, drew aside the 
rich old faded curtain, and peeped out. Nothing but pines and 
pines—Scotch firs all about and everywhere! They came within 
a few yards of the window. She threw it open. The air was 
still, the morning sun shone hot upon them, and the resinous 
odour exhaled from their bark and their needles and their fresh 
buds, filled the room—sweet and clean. ‘There was nothing, 
not even a fence, between this wing of the house and the 
wood. 

All through his deep sleep, Malcolm heard the sound of the 
sea—whether of the phantom-sea in his soul, or of the world-sea 
to whose murmurs he had listened with such soft delight as he 
fell asleep, matters little: the sea was with him in his dreams. 
But when he awoke it was to no musical crushing of water-drops, 
no half-articulated tones of animal speech, but to tumult and out- 
cry from the stables. It was but too plain that he was wanted. 
Either Kelpie had waked too soon, or he had overslept himself: 
she was kicking furiously. Hurriedly induing a portion of his 
clothing, he rushed down and across the yard, shouting to her as 
he ran, like a nurse as she runs up the stair to a screaming child. 
She stopped once to give an eager whinny, and then fell to 
again. Griffiths, the groom, and the few other men about the 
place, were looking on appalled. He darted to the corn-bin, got _ 


- a great pottieful of oats, and shot into her stall. She buried her 


nose in them like the very demon of hunger, and he left her for 
the few moments of peace that would follow. He must finish 
his dressing as fast as he could: already, after four days of 
travel, which with her meant anything but a straight-forward jog- 
trot struggle with space, she needed a good gallop! When he 
returned, he found her just finishing her oats, and beginning to 
grow angry with her own nose for getting so near the bottom of 
the manger. While yet there was no worse sign, however, than 
the fidgetting of her hind quarters, and she was still busy, he 
made haste to saddle her. But her unusually obstinate refusal 
of the bit, and his difficulty in making her open her unwilling 


166 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTJE. 


jaws, gave unmistakable indication of coming conflict. Anxiously 


- he asked the bystanders after some open place where he might . 


let her go—fields or tolerably smooth heath, or sandy beach. He 
dared not take her through the trees, he said, while she was in 
- such a humour; she would dash herself to pieces. They told 
him there was a road straight from the stables to the shore, and 
there miles of pure sand without a pebble. Nothing could be 
better. He mounted and rode away. 

Florimel was yet but half-dressed, when the door of her room 
opened suddenly, and Lady Clementina darted in—the lovely 
chaos of her night not more than half as far reduced to order as 
that of Florimel’s.. Her moonlight hair, nearly as long as that of 
the fabled Godiva, was flung wildly about her in heavy masses. 
Her eyes were wild also; she looked like a holy Maenad. With 
a glide like the swoop of an avenging angel, she pounced upon 
Florimel, caught her by the wrist and pulled her towards the 
door. Florimel was startled, but made no resistance. She half 
led, half dragged her up a stair that rose from a corner of the 
hall gallery to the battlements of a little square tower, whence a 
few yards of the beach, through a chain of slight openings 
amongst the pines, was visible. Upon that spot of beach, a 
strange thing was going: on—at which afresh Clementina gazed 
with indignant horror, but Florimel eagerly stared with the 


forward-borne eyes of a spectator of the Roman arena. She saw 


Kelpie reared on end, striking out at Malcolm with her fore- 
_ hoofs, and snapping with angry teeth—then upon those teeth re- 
ceive such a blow from his fist that she swerved, and wheeling, 
flung her hind hoofs at his head. But Malcolm was too quick 
for her ; she spent her heels in the air, and he had her by the 
bit. Again she reared, and would have struck at him, but he 
kept well by her side, and with the powerful bit forced her to 
rear to her full height. Just as she was falling backwards, he 
pushed her head from him, and bearing her down sideways, 
seated himself on it the moment it touched the ground. ‘Then 
first the two women turned to each other. An arch of victory 
bowed Florimel’s lip; her eyebrows were uplifted; the blood 


flushed her cheek, and darkened the blue in her wide opened 
eyes. Lady Clementina’s forehead was gathered in vertical — 


wrinkles over her nose, and all about her eyes was contracted as if 
Squeezing from them the flame of indignation, while her teeth and 
lips were firmly closed. The two madeasplendid contrast. When 


Clementina’s gaze fell on her visitor, the fire in her eyes burned 


more angry still: her soul was stirred by the presence of wrong 
and cruelty, and here, her guest, and looking her straight in the 


sgh Set Ge ara Ss Coa aa ee ea ae a ee eee 
oy co oF a NS i lee Oa i A Daal en UR 


DISCIPLINE. 167° 


eyes, was a young woman, one word from whom would stop it 
all, actually enjoying the sight! 

“Lady Lossie, I am ashamed of you !” she said, with severest 
reproof; and turning from her, she ran down the stair. 

Florimel turned again towards the sea. Presently she caught 
sight of Clementina glimpsing through the pines, “now in glimmer 
and now in gloom,” as she sped swiftly to the shore, and, after a 
few short minutes of disappearance, saw her emerge upon the 
space of sand where sat Malcolm on the head of the demoness. 
But alas! she could only see. She could hardly even hear the 
sound of the tide. 

“MacPhail, are you a man?” cried Clementina, startling him 
so that in another instant the floundering mare would have been 
on her feet. With aright noble anger in her face, and her hair 
flying like a wind-torn cloud, she rushed out of the wood upon 
him, where he sat quietly tracing a proposition of Euclid on the 
sand with his whip. 

“ Ay, and a bold one,” was on Malcolm’s lips for reply, but he 
bethought himself in time. 

“Tam sorry what Iam compelled to do should annoy your 
ladyship,” he said. 

What with indignation and breathless—she had run so fast— 
Clementina had exhausted herself in that one exclamation, and - 
stood’ panting and staring. The black bulk of Kelpie lay 
outstretched on the yellow sand, giving now and then assprawling 
kick or a wamble like a lumpy snake, and her soul commiserated 
each movement as if it had been the last throe of dissolution, - 
while the grey fire of the mare’s one-visible fierce eye, turned up 
from the shadow of Malcolm’s superimposed bulk, seemed to 
her tender heart a mute appeal for woman’s help. 

As Malcolm spoke, he cautiously shifted his position, and, 
half-rising, knelt with one knee where he had sat before, looking 


observant at Lady Clementina. ‘The champion of oppressed — 


animality soon recovered speech. 

“Get off the poor creature’s head instantly,” she said, with 
dignified command. “I will permit no such usage of living 
thing on my ground.” 

“JTamvery sorry toseemrude, my lady,” answered Malcolm, “butto 
obey you would perhapsbetoruin my mistress’sproperty. Ifthemare 
were to break away, she would dash herself to pieces in the wood.” 

“You have goaded her to madness.” 

“‘1’m the more bound to take care of her then,” said Malcolm. 
“But indeed it is only temper—such temper, however, that I 
almost believe she is at times possessed of a demon.” 


ey r SEY LORE ti ee POA, Cae Ma 
168 2 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


“The demon is in yourself. There is nothing in her but what 
your cruelty has put there. Let her up, I command you.” 

“‘T dare not, my lady. If she were to get loose she would tear 
your ladyship to pieces.” 

“ T will take my chance.” 

“But I will not, my lady. I know the danger, and have to 


take care of you who do not. There is no occasion to be uneasy ~ 


about the mare. She is tolerably comfortable. I am not hurting 
her—not much. Your ladyship does not reflect how strong a 
horse’s skull is. And you see what great powerful breaths she 
draws !” 

“She is in agony,” cried Clementina. 

“‘Not in the least, my lady. She is only balked of her own 
way, and does not like it.” 

“And what right have you to balk her of her own way? Has 
she no right to a mind of her own ?” 

“She may of course have her mind, but she can’t have her way. 
She has got a master.” 

“ And what right have you to be her master?” by 

“That my master, my Lord Lossie, gave me the charge of her.” 

“T don’t mean that sort of right; that goes for nothing. What 
right in the nature of things can you have to tyrannize over any 
creature?” 

“None, my lady. But the higher nature has the right to rule 


the lower in righteousness. Even you can’t have your own way 


always, my lady.” 

“TI certainly cannot now, so long as you keep in that position. 
Pray, is it in virtue of your being the higher nature that you keep 
my way from me?” 

“No, my lady. But it is in virtue of right. If I wanted to 
take your ladyship’s property, your dogs would be justified in 
refusing me my way.—I do not think I: exaggerate when I say 
that, if my mare here had er way, there would not be a living 
creature about your house by this day week.” 


Lady Clementina had never yet felt upon her the power of a 


stronger nature than herown. She had had to yield to authority, 
but never to superiority. Hence her self-will had been abnur- 
mally developed. Her very compassion was self-willed.. Now 
for the first time, she continuing altogether unaware of it, the 
presence of such a nature began to operate upon her. The 
calmness of Malcolm’s speech and the immovable decision of his 
behaviour told. 

“ But,” she said, more calmly, “your mare has had four long 
journeys, and she should have rested to-day.” 


DISCIPLINE, | 169 

“ Rest is just the one thing beyond her, my lady. There is a 
volcano of life and strength in her you have no conception of. I 
could not have dreamed of horse like her. She has never in her 
life had enough to do. I believe that is the chief trouble with. 
her. What we all want, my lady, is a master—a real right 
master. I’ve got one myself, and € 

“Vou mean you want one yourself,” said Lady Clementina. 
“‘Vou’ve only got a mistress, and she spoils you.” 

“That is not what I meant, my lady,’ returned Malcolm. 
“ But one thing I know, is, that Kelpie would soon come to grief 
without me. I shall keep her here till her half-hour is out, and 
then let her take another gallop.” 

Lady Clementina turned away. She was defeated. Malcolm 
knelt there on one knee, with a hand on the mare’s shoulder, so 
calm, so imperturbable, so ridiculously full of argument, that there 
was nothing more for her to do or say. Indignation, expostula- 
tion, were powerless upon him as mist upon a rock, He was the 
oddest, most incomprehensible of grooms. 

Going back to the house, she met Florimel, and turned again — 
with her to the scene of discipline. Ere they reached it, 


_ Florimel’s delight with all around her had done something to 


restore Clementina’s composure: the place was precious to her, 
for there she had passed nearly the whole of her childhood. But 
to anyone with a heart open to the expressions of Nature’s 
countenance, the place could not but have a strange as well as 
peculiar charm. 

Florimel had lost her way. I would rather it had been in the 
moonlight, but slant sunlight was next best. It shone through a 
slender multitude of mast-like stems, whose shadows complicated 
the wonder, while the light seemed amongst them to have 
gathered to itself properties appreciable by other organs besides 
the eyes, and to dwell bodily with the trees. The soil was ~ 
mainly of sand, the soil to delight the long tap-roots of the fir- 
trees, covered above with a thick layer of slow-forming mould, in 
the gradual odoriferous decay of needles and cones and flakes of 
bark and knots of resinous exudation. It grew looser and 
sandier, and its upper coat thinner, as she approached the shore. 
The trees shrunk in size, stood farther apart, and grew more 


- individual, sending out knarled boughs on all sides of them, and 


asserting themselves as the tall slender branchless ones in the 
social restraint of the thicker wood dared not do. ‘They thinned. 
and thinned, and the sea and the shore came shining through, 
for the ground sloped to the beach without any intervening 
abruption of cliff or even bank; they thinned and thinned until 


170 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


all were gone, and the bare long yellow sands lay stretched out on 


both sides for miles, gleaming and sparkling in the sun, especially ~ 


at one spot where the water of a little stream wandered about 
over them, as if it had at length found its home, but was too 
weary to enter and lose its weariness, and must wait for the tide 
to come up and take it. But when Florimel reached the strand, 
she could see nothing of the group she sought: the shore took a 
little bend, and a tongue of forest came in between. | 

She was on her way back to the house when she met Clemen- 
tina, also returning discomfited. Pleased as she was with them, 
her hostess soon interrupted her ecstasies by breaking out in 
accusation of Malcolm, not untempered, however, with a touch 
of dawning respect. At the same time her report of his words 
was anything but accurate, for as no one can be just without love, 
so no one can truly report without understanding. But they had 
not time to discuss him now, as Clementina insisted on Florimel’s 
putting an immediate stop to his cruelty. 

When they reached the spot, there was the groom again seated 
on his animal’s head, with a new proposition in the sand before 
him. 

“Malcolm,” said his mistress, “let the mare get up. You 
must let her off the rest of her punishment this time.” 

Malcolm rose again to his knee. 

“Yes, my lady,” he said. ‘“ But perhaps your ladyship wouldn’t 
mind helping me to unbuckle her girths before she gets to her 
feet. I want to give her a bath—Come to this side,” he went on, 
as Florimel advanced to his request, “round here by her head. 


wt =e 
FAs 

>; aan 
: 2 


If your ladyship would kneel upon it, that would be best. But s 


you mustn’t move till I tell you.” 

“I will do anything you bid me—exactly as you say, Malcolm,” 
responded Florimel. 

“There’s the Colonsay blood! I can trust that!” cried 
Malcolm, with a pardonable outbreak of pride in his family. 
Whether most of his ancestors could so well have appreciated the 
courage of obedience, is not very doubtful. 


Clementina was shocked at the insolent familiarity of her poor. 


little friend’s groom, but Florimel saw none, and kneeled, as if 
she had been in church, on the head of the mare, with the fierce 
crater of her fiery brain blazing at her knee. Then Malcolm 
lifted the flap of the saddle, undid the buckles of the girths, and 
drawing them a little from under her, laid the saddle on the sand, 
talking all the time to Florimel, lest a sudden word might seem 


a direction, and she should rise before the right moment had 
come, 


ees 
» \ 


DISCIPLINE. 171i 


Please, my lady Clementina, will you go to the edge of the 
wood. I can’t tell what she may do when she gets up. And 
please, my lady Florimel, will you run there too, the moment you 
get off her head. 

When he got her rid of the saddle, he gathered the reins 
together in his bridle hand, took his whip in the other, and softlv 
and carefully straddled across her huge barrel without touching 


her. 


“* Now, my lady!” he said. Run for the wood.” 

Florimel rose and fled, heard a great scrambling behind her, 
and turning at the first tree, which was only a few yards off, saw 
Kelpie on her hind legs, and Malcolm, whom she had lifted with 
her, sticking by his knees on her bare back. ‘The moment her 
fore feet touched the ground, he gave her the spur severely, and 
after one plunging kick, off they went westward over the sands, 
away from the sun; nor did they turn before they had dwindled 
to such a speck that the ladies could not have told by their eyes 
whether it was moving or not. At length they saw it swerve a 
little; by and by it began to grow larger; and after another 
moment or two they could distinguish what it was, tearing along 
towards them like a whirlwind, the lumps of wet sand flying 
behind like an upward storm of clods. What a picture it was !—- 
only neither of the ladies was calm enough to see it picturewise : 


the still sea before, type of the infinite always, and now of 


its repose ; the still straight solemn wood behind, like a past 
world that had gone to sleep—out of which the sand seemed'to 
come flowing down, to settle in the long sand-lake of the beach ; 
that flameless furnace of life tearing along the shore, betwixt the 
sea and the land, between time and eternity, guided, but only half 
controlled, by the strength of a higher will; and the two angels 
that had issued—whether out of the forest of the past or the sea 
of the future, who could tell ?—and now stood, with hand-shaded 
eyes, gazing upon that fierce apparition of terrene life. < 
As he came in front of them, Malcolm suddenly wheeled 
Kelpie, so suddenly and in so sharp a curve that he made her 
“turne close to the ground, like a cat, when scratchingly she 
wheeles about after a mouse,” as Sir Philip Sidney says, and 
dashed her straight into the sea. The two ladies gave a cry, 
Florimel of delight, Clementina of dismay, for she knew the coast, 
and that there it shelved suddenly into deep water. But that was 
only the better to Malcolm: it was the deep water he sought, 
though he got it with a little pitch sooner than he expected. He 
had often ridden Kelpie into the sea at Portlossie, even in the 
cold autumn weather when first she came into his charge, and 


172 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE. 


nothing pleased her better or quieted her more. He was a heavy 
weight to swim with, but she displaced much water. She carried 
her head bravely, he balanced sideways, and they swam splendidly. 
To the eyes of Clementina the mare seemed to be labouring 
for her life. 

When Malcolm thought she had had enough of it, he turned 
her head to the shore. But then came the difficulty. So steeply 
did the shore shelve that Kelpie could not get a hold with her 
hind hoofs to scramble up into the shallow water. The ladies 
saw the struggle, and Clementina, understanding it, was run- 
ning in an agony right into the water, with the vain idea of 
helping them, when Malcolm threw himself off, drawing the 
reins over Kelpie’s head as he fell, and swimming but the length 
of them shorewards, felt the ground with his feet, and stood. 
Kelpie, relieved of his weight, floated a little farther on to the 
shelf, got a better hold with her fore feet, some hold with her 
hind ones, and was beside him in a moment. The same moment 
Malcolm was on her back again, and they were tearing off east- 
ward at full stretch. So far did the lessening point recede in the 
narrowing distance, that the two ladies sat down on the sand, and 
fell a-talking about Florimel’s most uncategorical groom, as 
Clementina, herself the most uncategorical of women, to use her 
own scarcely justifiable epithet, called him. She asked if such 
persons abounded in Scotland. Florimel could but answer that 
this was the only one she had met with. Then she told her about 
Richmond Park and Lord Liftore and Epictetus. 

“Ah, that accounts for him!” said Clementina. “ Epictetus 
was a Cynic, a very cruel man: he broke his slave’s leg once, I 
remember.” 

Mr Lenorme told me that Ze was the slave, and that his master 
broke “zs leg,” said Florimel. 

“Ah, yes! I daresay.—That was it. But it is of little conse- 
quence: his principles were severe, and your groom has been his 
too ready pupil. It is a pity he is such a savage: he might be 
quite an interesting character.—Can he read?” 

“‘T have just told you of his reading Greek over Kelpie’s head,” 
said Florimel, laughing. 

“Ah! but I meant English,” said Clementina, whose thoughts 
were a little astray. ‘Then laughing at herself she explained :— 
“T mean, can he read aloud? I put the last of the Waverley 
novels in the box we shall have to-morrow, or the next day at 
latest, I hope: and I was wondering whether he could read the 
Scotch—as it ought to be read. 1 have never heard it spoken, 
and I don’t know how to imagine it.” 


DISCIPLINE. 193 


“We can try him,” said Florimel. “It will be great fun any- 
how. He is swch a character! You will be so amused with the 
remarks he will make!” . 

“ But can you venture to let him talk to you?” 

“Tf you ask him to read, how will you prevent him? Unfor. 
tunately he has thoughts, and they wz// out.” 

“Ts there no danger of his being rude?” 

* If speaking his mind about anything in the book be rudeness, 
he will most likely be rude. Any other kind of rudeness is as 
impossible to Malcolm as to any gentleman in the land.” 

“ How can you be so sure of him?” said Clementina, a little 
anxious as to the way in which her friend regarded the young man. 

“My father was—yes, I may say so—attached to him—so 
much so that he—I can’t quite say what—but something like ~ 
made him promise never to leave my service. And this I know 
for myself, that not once, ever since that man came to us, has he 
done a selfish thing or one to be ashamed of. I could give you 
proof after proof of his devotion.” 

Florimel’s warmth did not reassure Clementina; and her 
uneasiness wrought to the prejudice of Malcolm. She was never 
quite so generous towards human beings as towards animals. 
She could not be depended on for justice except to people in 
trouble, and then she was very apt to be unjust to those who 
troubled them. 

“J would not have you place too much confidence in your 
Admirable Crichton of menials, Florimel,” she said. “There is 
something about him I cannot get at the bottom of. Depend 
upon it, aman who can be cruel would betray on the least pro- 
vocation.” 

Florimel smiled superior—as she had good reason to do; but 
Clementina did not understand the smile, and therefore did not 
like it. She feared the young fellow had already gained too much 
influence over his mistress. ‘ 

“Florimel, my love,” she said, “listen to me. Your experi- 
ence is not so ripe as mine. ‘That man is not what you think 
him. One day or other he will, I fear, make himself worse than 
disagreeable. How caz a cruel man be unselfish?” 

“¥ don’t think him cruel at all. But then I haven’t such a 
soft heart for animals as you. We should think it silly in Scot- 
land. You wouldn’t teach a dog manners at the expense of a 
howl. You would let him be a nuisance rather than give him a 
cut with a whip. What a nice mother of children you will make, 
Clementina! ‘That’s how the children of good people are so 
often a disgrace to them.” 


174 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


“You are like all the rest of the Scotch I ever knew,” said 
Lady Clementina: “the Scotch are always preaching! I believe 
it is in their blood. You are a nation of parsons. Thank good- 
ness! my morals go no farther than doing as I would be done 


by. I want to see creatures happy about me. For my own sake . 


even, J would never cause pang to person—it gives me sucha 
pang myself.” 

“That’s the way you are made, I suppose, Clementina,” re- 
turned Florimel. “For me, my clay must be coarser. I don’t 
mind a little pain myself, and I can’t break my heart for it when 
I see it—except it be very bad—such as I should care about 
-myself.—But here comes the tyrant.” 

Malcolm was pulling up his mare some hundred yards off. 
Even now she was unwilling to stop—but it was at last only from 
pure original objection to whatever was wanted of her. When 
she did stand she stood stock still, breathing hard. 

“T have actually succeeded in taking a little out of her at last, 
my lady,” said Malcolm as he dismounted. ‘“ Have you gota 
bit of sugar in your pocket, my lady? She would take it quite 
gently now.” 

Florimel had none, but Clementina had, for she always carried 
sugar for her horse. Malcolm held the demoness very watchfully, 
but she took the sugar from Florimel’s palm as neatly as an 
elephant, and let her stroke her nose over her wide red nostrils 
without showing the least of her usual inclination to punish a 
liberty with death. ‘Then Malcolm rode her home, and she was 
at peace till the evening—when he took her out again. 


CHAPTER XL. 
MOONLIGHT. 


Anp now followed a pleasant time. Wastbeach was the quietest 
of all quiet neighbourhoods ; it was the loveliest of spring-summer 
weather ; and the variety of scenery on moor, in woodland, and on 
coast, within easy reach of such good horse-women, was wonder- 
ful. The first day they rested the horses that would rest, but the 
next day were in the saddle immediately after an early breakfast. 
They took the forest way. In many directions were tolerably 
smooth rides cut, and along them they had good gallops, to the 
great delight of Florimel after the restraints of Rotten Row, where 


ot a te 2 4 oa 
of ae eee . 

he ee Pe, 1g “ 

» 7h Vie ee + Fe 


MOONLIGHT. 175 


riding had seemed like dancing a minuet with a waltz in her heart. 
Malcolm, so far as human companionship went, found it dull, for 
Lady Clementina’s groom regarded him with the contempt of 
superior age, the most contemptible contempt of all, seeing years 
are not the wisdom they ought to bring, and the first sign of that 
is modesty. Again and again his remarks tempted Malcolm to 
Incite him to ride Kelpie, but conscience, the thought of the 
man’s family, and the remembrance that it required all his youth- 
ful strength, and that it would therefore be the challenge of the 
strong to the weak, saved him from the sin, and he schooled 
himself to the endurance of middle-aged arrogance. For the 
learning of the lesson he had practice enough: they rode every 
day, and Griffith did not thaw; but the one thundering gallop 
he had every morning along the sands with Kelpie, whom™* no 
ordinary day’s work was enough to save from the heart-burning 
ferment of repressed activity, was both preparation and amends 
for the annoyance. ; 

When his mistress mentioned the proposal of her friend with 
regard to the new novel, he at once exoressed his willingness to 
attempt compliance, fearing only, he said, that his English would 
prove offensive and his Scotch unintelligible. The task was nowise 
alarming to him, for he had read aloud much to the schoolmaster, 
who had also insisted that he should read aloud when alone, 
especially verse, in order that he might get all the good of its 
outside as well as inside—its sound as well as thought, the one 
being the ethereal body of the other. And he had the best 
primary qualifications for the art, namely, a delight in the sounds 
of human speech, a value for the true embodiment of thought, 
and a good ear, mental as well as vocal, for the assimilation of 
sound to sense. After these came the quite secondary, yet 
valuable gift of a pleasant voice, manageable for reflection ; and 
with such an outfit, the peculiarities of his country’s utterance, 
the long-drawn vowels, and the outbreak of feeling in chant-like 
tones and modulations, might be forgiven, and certainly were 
forgiven by Lady Clementina, who, even in his presence, took 
his part against the objections of his mistress. On the 
whole, they were so much pleased with his first reading, which 
took place the very day the box arrived, that they concluded to 
restrain the curiosity of their interest in persons and events, for 
the sake of the pleasure of meeting them always in the final 
fulness of local colour afforded them by his utterance. While he 


* According to the grammars, I ought to have written which, but it will not 
do. I could, I think, tell why, but prefer leaving the question te the 
reader, 


176 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


read, they busied their fingers with their embroidery ; for as yet 
that graceful work, so lovelily described by Cowper in his Jas, 
had not begun to vanish before the crude colours and mechanical = 
vulgarity of Berlin wool, now happily in its turn vanishing like a 
dry dust-cloud into the limbo of the art-universe: 


The well-depicted flower, | 
Wrought patiently into the snowy lawn > 
Unfolds its bosom ; buds, and leaves, and sprigs, _ ih age 
And curling tendrils, gracefully disposed, ; 
Follow the nimble finger of the fair ; 
A wreath, that cannot fade, of flowers that blow is 
With most success when all besides decay.* 


There was not much of a garden about the place, but there = 
was a little lawn amongst the pines, in the midst of which stood a 
huge old patriarch, with red stem and grotesquely contorted 
branches: beneath it was a bench, and there, after their return 
from their two hours’ ride, the ladies sat, while the sun was at its 
warmest, on the mornings of their first and second readings: 
Malcolm sat on a wheelbarrow. After lunch on the second day, 
which they had agreed from the first, as ladies so often do, when 
free of the more devouring sex, should be their dinner, and 
after due visits paid to a multitude of animals, the desire awoke | 
simultaneously in them for another portion of “St. Ronan’s Well.” a 
They resolved therefore to send for their reader as soon as they 
had had tea. But when they sent he was nowhere to be found, 
and they concluded on a stroll. 

Anticipating no further requirement of his service that day, 
Malcolm had gone out. Drawn by the sea, he took his way . 
through the dim solemn boughless wood, as if to keep a moon- * 
light tryst with his early love. But the sun was not yet down, 
and among the dark trees, shot through by the level radiance, he f 
wandered, his heart swelling in his bosom with the glory and the 
mystery. Again the sun was zz the wood, its burning centre, the 
marvel of the home which he left in the morning only to return 
thither at night, and it was now a temple of red light, more gor- 
geous, more dream-woven than the morning. How he glowed on 
the red stems of the bare pines, fit pillars for that which seemed 
temple and rite, organ and anthem in one—the worship of the 2 
earth, uplifted to its Hyperion! It was a world of faery ; anything rs 
might happen in it. Who, in that region of marvel, would start : 
to see suddenly a knight on. a great sober war-horse come 
slowly pacing down the torrent of carmine splendour, flashing it, 


* ‘©The Winter Evening.” aoe 


MOONLIGHT. ~ 177 


~ Tike the Knight of the Sun himself, in a flood from every hollow, 


a gleam from every flat, and a star from every round and knob 
of his armour? As the trees thinned away, and his feet sank 
deeper: in the looser sand, and the sea broke blue out of the 
infinite, talking quietly to itself of its own solemn swell into 


_ being out of the infinite thought unseen, Malcolm felt as if the 


world with its loveliness and splendour were sinking behind him, 
and the cool entrancing sweetness of the eternal dreamland of 
the soul, where the dreams are more real than any sights of the 
world, were opening wide before his entering feet. ‘‘ Shall not 
death be like this?” he said, and threw himself upon the sand, and 
hid his face and his eyes fromitall. For there is this strange thing 
about all glory embodied in the material, that, when the passion 
of it rises to its height,.we hurty from its presence that its idea 
may perfect itself in silent and dark and deaf delight. Of its 
material self we want no more: its real self we have, and it sits 
at the fountain of our tears. Malcolm hid his face from the 
source of his gladness, and worshipped the source of that source. 

Rare as they are at any given time, there have been, I think, 
such youths in all ages of the world—youths capable of glorying 
in the fountain whence issues the torrent of their youthful might. 
Nor is the reality of their early worship blasted for us by any 
mistral of doubt that may blow upon their spirit from the icy 
region of the understanding. The cold fevers, the vital agues 
that such winds breed, can but prove that not yet has the sun of 
the perfect arisen upon them ; that the Eternal has not yet mani- 
fested himself in all regions of their being ; that a grander, more 
obedient, therefore more blissful, more absorbing worship yet, is 
possible, nay, is essential to them. These chills are but the 
shivers of the divine nature, unsatisfied, half-starved, banished 
from its home, divided from its origin, after which it calls in 
groanings it knows not how to shape into sounds articulate. ~ 
They are the spirit-wail of the holy infant after the bosom of its 
mother. Let no man long back to the bliss of his youth—but 
forward to a bliss that shall swallow even that, and contain it, 
and be more than it. Our history moves in cycles, it is true, ever 
returning toward the point whence it started ; but it is in the im- 
perfect circles of a spiral it moves; it returns—but ever to a point 
above the former: even the second childhood, at which the fool 
jeers, fs tne better, the truer, the fuller childhood, growing 
strong to cast off altogether, with the husk of its own enveloping 
age, that of its family, its country, its world as well. Age is not 
all decay : it is the ripening, the swelling of the fresh life within, 
that withers and burst3 the husk. 

_M 


; When iatcotm lifted his head, the sun haat gone downey ec 
rose and wandered along the sand towards the moon—at length 
pets blooming out of the darkening sky, where she had hung all day 
like a washed-out rag of light, to revive as the sunlight faded. 
__ He watched the banished life of her day-swoon returning, until, 
= gathering courage, she that had been no one, shone out fair and 
clear, in conscious queendom of the night. Then, in the friendly 
oe infolding of her dreamlight and the dreamland it created, Mal-— 
-- colm’s soul revived as in the comfort of the lesser, the mitigated a 
__ glory, and, as the moon into radiance from the darkened air, and 
____the nightingale into music from the sleep-stilled world of birds, © | 
blossomed from the speechlessness of thought and feeling into a — 
ae strange kind of brooding song. If the words were half nonsense, — 
oh ~ the feeling was not the less real. Such as they were, they came > 
almost of themselves, and the tune came with them. 


Rose 0’ my hert, 
Open yer leaves to the lampin’ mune 3 ‘s 
Into the curls lat her keek an’ dert ; So 
She'll tak’ the colour but gi’e ve tune. a 
Buik o’ my brain, woe 
Open yer neuks to the starry signs 3 a 
Lat the een o’ the jholy luik an’ strain aes * 
An’ glimmer an’ score atween the lines, 


Cup o’ my sowl, 

Gowd an’ diamond an’ ruby cup, : 
Ye’re noucht ava but a toom dry bowl, 

Till the wine o’ the kingdom fill ye up, 


Conscience-glass, 
Mirror the infinite all in thee ; 
Melt the bounded and make it pass 
Into the tideless, shoreless sea. 


World of my life, 
Swing thee round thy sunny track ; . ie 
Fire and wind and water and strife— a 
Carry them all to the glory back. 


s yer as he halted for a word, the moonlight, and the low _ 
_ sweet waves on the sands, filled up the’ pauses to his ear; and by 
_ there he lay, looking up to the sky and the moon and the rose- 
_ diamond stars, his thoughts half-dissolved in feeling, and his (aan 
pgrcime half-crystallised to thought. Oe 
Out of the dim wood came two lovely forms into the moonlight, i 
a softly approached him—so softly that he knew eae Oe 
their nearness until Florimel spoke. 
“Ts that MacPhail?” she said. 


Par ee MOONLIGHT. 179 


“Ves, my lady,” answered Malcolm, and bounded to his feet. 

“What were you singing?” 

* You could hardly call it singing, my lady. We should call 
it crooning in Scotland.” 

** Croon it again then.” 

“T couldn’t, my lady. It’s gone.” 

“You don’t mean to pretend that you were extemporising ?” 

“T was crooning what came—like the birds, my lady. I 
couldn’t have done it if I had thought anyone was near.” Then, 
half ashamed, and anxious to turn the talk from the threshold 
of his secret chamber, he said, “Did you ever see a lovelier 
night, ladies ?” 

“ Not often, certainly,” answered Clementina. 

She was not quite pleased and not altogether offended at his 
addressing them dually. A curious sense of impropriety in the 
state of things bewildered her—she and her friend talking thus, 
in the moonlight, on the sea-shore, doing nothing, with her 
friend’s groom—and such a groom, his mistress asking him to 
sing again, and he addressing them both with a remark on the 
beauty of the night! She had braved the world a good deal, 
but she did not choose to brave it where nothing was to be had, 
and she was too honest to say to herself that the world would 
never know—that there was nothing to brave: she was not one 
to do that in secret to which she would not hold her face. Yet 
all the time she had a doubt whether this young man, whom it 
would certainly be improper to encourage by addressing from 

any level but one of lofty superiority, did not belong to a higher 
sphere than theirs ; while certainly no man could be more unpre- 
suming, or less forward even when opposing his opinion to theirs. 
Still—if an angel were to come down and take charge of their 
horses, would ladies be justified in treating him as other than a ~ 
servant? 

“This is just the sort of night,” Malcolm resumed, “ when I 
could almost persuade myself I was not quite sure I wasn’t 
dreaming. It makes a kind of border land betwixt waking and 
sleeping, knowing and dreaming, in our brain. In a night like 
this I fancy we feel something like the colour of what God feels 
when he is making the lovely chaos of a new world, a new kind 
of world, such as has never been before.” 

“T think we had better go in,” said Clementina to Florimel, 
and turned away. 

Florimel made no objection, and they walked towards the 
wood. 

“ You really must get rid of him as soon as you can,” said 


me is = . 
Bai eae ! 2 


180 LHE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE., 


Clementina, when again the moonless night of the pines had 
received them: “he is certainly more than half a lunatic. It is 
almost full moon now,” she added, looking up. “I have never 
seen him so bad.” 

Florimel’s clear laugh rang through the wood. 

“Don't be alarmed, Clementina,” she said. ‘ He has talked 
like that ever since I knew him; and if he is mad, at least he is 
no worse than he has always been. It is nothing but poetry— — 
yeast on the brain, my father used to say. We should have 
a fish-poet of him—a new thing in the world, he said. He would 
never be cured till he broke out in a book of poetry. I should 
be afraid my father would break the catechism and not rest in 
his grave till the resurrection, if I were to send Malcolm away.” 

For Malcolm, he was at first not a little mazed at the utter 
blankness of the wall against which his words had dashed them- 
selves. Then he smiled queerly to himself, and said: 

“T used to think ilka bonny lassie bude to be a poetess—for 
hoo sud she be bonnie but by the informin’ hermony o’ her 
bein’ p—an’ what’s that but the poetry o’ ¢#e Poet, the Makar, as 
they ca’d a poet ? the auld Scots tongue?—but haith! I ken 
better an’ waur noo! ‘There’s gane the twa bonniest / ever saw, 
an’ I s’ lay my heid there’s mair poetry in auld man-faced Miss 
Horn nor in a dizzin like them. Ech! but it’s some sair to 
bide. It’s sair upon a man to see a bonny wuman ’at has nae 
poetry, nae inward lichtsome hermony in her. But it’s dooms 
sairer yet to come upo’ ane wantin’ cowmon sense! Saw onybody 
ever sic a gran’ sicht as my Leddy Clementina !—an’ wha can. 
say but she’s weel named frae the hert oot p—as guid at the hert, 
I'll sweir, as at the een! but eh me! to hear the blether o’ 
nonsense ’at comes oot atween thae twa bonny yetts o’ music— 
an’ a’ ’cause she winna gie her hert rist an’ time eneuch to grow 
bigger, but maun aye be settin’ at things richt afore their time, 
an’ her ain fitness for the job! It’s sic a faithless kin’ 0’ a wy 
that! I could jist fancy I saw her gaein’ a’ roon’ the trees o’ a 
simmer nicht, pittin’ hiney upo’ the peers an’ the peaches, ’cause 
she cudna lippen to natur’ to ripe them sweet eneuch—only ’at 
she wad never tak the hiney frae the bees. She’s jist the pictur’ 
o Natur’ hersel’ turnt some dementit. I cud jist fancy I saw her 
gaein’ aboot amo’ the ripe corn, on sic a nicht as this o’ the 
mune, happin’ ’t frae the frost. An’ I s’ warran’ no ae mesh in 
oor nets wad she lea’ ohn clippit open gien the twine had a ~ 
herrin’ by the gills. She’s e’en sae pitifw’ owre the sinner ’at she 
winna gi’e him a chance 0’ growin’ better. I won’er gien she 


_believes ’at there’s ae great thoucht abune a’, an’ aneth a’, an’ 


THE SWIPTO 181 


roon’ a’, an’ in a’thing. She cudna be in sic a mist o’ benevo- 
lence and parritch-hertitness gien she cud lippen till a wiser. 
It’s na’e won’er she kens naething aboot poetry but the meeser- 
able sids an’ sawdist an’ leavin’s the gran’ leddies sing an’ ca’ 
sangs! Nae mair is ’t ony won’er she sud tak’ me for dementit, 
gien she h’ard what I was singin’! only I canna think she did that, 
for I was but croonin’ till mysel’.”—-Malcolm was wrong there, 
for he was singing out loud and clear.—‘‘ That was but a kin’ 0’ 
an unknown tongue atween Him an’ me an’ no anither.” 


CHAPTER XLI. 
THE SWIFT. 


FLORIMEL succeeded so far in reassuring her friend as to the 
safety if not sanity of her groom, that she made no objection to 
yet another reading from “ St Ronan’s Well ”—upon which occa- 
sion an incident occurred that did far more to reassure her than 
all the attestations of his mistress. 

Clementina, in consenting, had proposed, it being a warm 
sunny afternoon, that they should that time go down to the lake, 
and sit with their work on the bank, while Malcolm read. This 
lake, like the whole place, and some of the people in it, was 
rather strange—not resembling any piece of water that Malcolm 
at least had ever seen. More than a mile in length, but quite 
narrow, it lay on the sea-shore—a lake of deep fresh water, with 
nothing between it and the sea but a bank of sand, up which 
the great waves came rolling in south-westerly winds, one now 
and then toppling over—to the disconcerting no doubt of the 
pikey multitude within. 

The head only of the mere came into Clementina’s property, 
and they sat on the landward side of it, on a sandy bank, among 
the half-exposed roots of a few ancient firs, where a little stream 
that fed the lake had made a small gully, and was now trotting 
over a bed of pebbles in the bottom of it. Clementina was de- 
scribing to Florimel the peculiarities of the place, how there was 
no outlet to the lake, how the water went filtering through 
the sand into the sea, how in some parts it was very deep, 
and what large pike there were in it. Malcolm sat a little 
aside as usual, with his face towards the ladies, and the book 
open in his hand, waiting a sign to begin, but looking at the lake, 
which here was some fifty yards broad, reedy at the edge, daik 


PE 7 ES ea tna lt eA a a RRNA SI eB a a ANS Ie SB ST Oe A 
ae oes ent oy SS EE ba oe ee a ea 


Lg Es 
te ” 

% 

XE rea 2 

“¢ a, ¢ eray - 


182 LHE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE, — 


and deep in the centre. All at once he sprang to his feet, 


dropping the book, ran down to the brink of the water, undoing 
his buckled belt and pulling off his coat as he ran, threw himself 


over the bordering reeds into the pool, and disappeared with a 
great plash. Clementina gave a scream, and started up with 
distraction in her face: she made no doubt that in the sudden 
ripeness of his insanity he had committed suicide. But Florimel, 
though startled by her friend’s cry, laughed, and crowded out 
assurances that Malcolm knew well enough what he was about. 
It was longer, however, than she found pleasant; before a black 
head appeared—yards away, for he had risen at a great slope, 
swimming towards the other side. What cow/d he be after? 
Near the middle he swam more softly, and almost stopped. 
Then first they spied a small dark object on the surface. Al- 
most the same moment it rose into the air. They thought Mal- 
colm had flung it up. Instantly they perceived that it was a 
bird—a swift. Somehow it had dropped into the water, but a 
lift from Malcolm’s hand had restored it to the air of its bliss. 
But instead of turning and swimming back, Malcolm held on, 
and getting out on the farther side, ran down the beach and 
rushed into the sea, rousing once more the apprehensions of 
Clementina. The shore sloped rapidly, and in a moment he 
was in deep water. He swam a few yards out, swam ashore 
again, ran round the end of the lake, found his coat, and got 
from it his pocket-handkerchief. NHaving therewith dried his 
hands and face, he wrang out the sleeves of his shirt a little, put 


on his coat, returned to his place, and said, as he took up the 


book and sat down, 

“I beg your pardon, my ladies ; but just as I heard my Lady 
Clementina say Zzkes, I saw the little swift in the water. There 
was no time to lose. Swiftie had but a poor chance.” 

As he spoke he proceeded to find the place in the book. 

“You don’t imagine we are going to have you read in-such a 


plight as that!” cried Clementina. 


“I will take good care, my lady. I have books of my own, 
and I handle them like babies.” 

“You foolish man! It is of you in your wet clothes, not of 
the book I am thinking,” said Clementina indignantly 

“T’m much obliged to you, my lady, but there’s no fear of me. 
You saw me wash the fresh water out. Salt water never hurts.” 

“You must go and change nevertheless,” said Clementina. 


Malcolm looked to his mistress. She gave him asign to obey, 


and he rose. He had taken three steps towards the house when 
Clementina recalled hin. 


s ST. RONAN'S WELL. ~~ 183 


“One word, if you please,” she said. ‘‘ How is it that a man 
who risks his life for that of a little bird, can be so heartless to 
a great noble creature like that horse of yours? I cannot 
understand it!” 

“My lady,” returned Malcolm with a smile, “I was no more 
‘risking my life than you would be in taking a fly out of the 
milk-jug. And for your question, if your ladyship will only 
think, you cannot fail to see the difference. Indeed I explained 
my treatment of Kelpie to your ladyship that first morning in 
the park, when you so kindly rebuked me for it, but I don’t 
think your ladyship listened to a word I said.” 

Clementina’s face flushed, and she turned to her friend with 

a “Well!” in her eyes. But Florimel kept her head bent over 
her embroidery ; and Malcolm, no further notice being taken of 
him walked away. : 


GHAPTER XLIL 
ST RONAN’S WELL. 


THE next day the reading was resumed, and for several days 
was regularly continued. Each day, as their interest grew, longer 
time was devoted to it. They were all simple enough to accept 
what the author gave them, nor, had a critic of the time been 
present to instruct them that in this last he had fallen off, would 
they have heeded him much: for Malcolm, it was the first story 
by the Great Unknown he had seen. A question however 
occurring, not of art but of morals, he was at once on the alert. 
It arose when they reached that portion of the tale in which the 
true heir to an earldom and its wealth offers to leave all in the 
possession of the usurper, on the one condition of his ceasing 
to annoy a certain lady, whom, by villany of the worst, 
he had gained the power of rendering unspeakably miserable. 
Naturally enough, at this point Malcolm’s personal interest was 
suddenly excited: here were elements strangely correspondent 
with the circumstances of his present position. ‘Tyrrel’s offer of 
acquiescence in things as they were,-and abandonment of his 
rights, which, in the story, is so amazing to the man of the world 
to whom it is first propounded, drew an exclamation of delight from 
both ladies—from Clementina because of its unselfishness, from 
Florimel because of its devotion; neither of them was at any 


es 


* 
SS a ae ie 
iy we => 


“. be" 
s : 


184 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 
time ready to raise a moral question, and least of all where the — ae 


heart approved. But Malcolm was interested after a different 
fashion from theirs. Often during the reading he had made 
remarks and given explanations—not so much to the annoyance | 
of Lady Clementina as she had feared, for since his rescue of 
the swift, she had been more favourably disposed towards him, 
and had judged him a little more justly—not that she understood 
him, but that the gulf between them had contracted. He paused 
a moment, then said: “ 

“Do you think it was right, my ladies? Ought Mr Tyrrel 
to have made such an offer?” | 

“It was most generous of him,” said Clementina, not without 


indignation—and with the tone of one whose answer should : 
decide the question. “at 
““Splendidly generous,” replied Malcolm ; “‘—but—I so well Be 


remember when Mr Graham first made me see that the question 


of duty does not always lie between a good thing and a bad thing : 
there would be no room for casuistry then, he said. A-man has re 
very often to decide between one good thing and another. But 
indeed I can hardly tell without more time to think, whether that 
comes in here. Ifa man wants to be generous, it must at least ; 
be at his own expense.” cee 
“ But surely,” said Florimel, not in the least aware that she was 
changing sides, “a man ought to hold by the rights that birth and "s 
inheriteace give him.” <a 
“That is by no means so clear, my lady,” returned Malcolm, ~ 4 
“as you seem to think. A man may be bound to hold by — B 
things that are his rights, but certainly not because they are i= 
rights. One of the grandest things in having rights is that, being — 
your rights, you may give them up—except, of course, they 
involve duties with the performance of which the abnegation 
would interfere.” | aa 
“I have been trying to think,” said Ijady Clementina, “what & 
can be the two good things here to choose between.” ey 
“That is the right question, and logically put, my lady,” 
rejoined Malcolm, who, from his early training, could not help 
Sometimes putting on the schoolmaster. “The two good things ; 
are—let me see—yes—on the one hand the protection of the lady _ i 
to whom he owed all possible devotion of man to woman, and on 
the other what he owed to his tenants, and perhaps to society in 
general—yes—as the owner of wealth and position. There is 
generosity on the one side and dry duty on the other.” 
“ But this was no case of mere love to the lady, I think,” said my 
Clementina. “Did Mr Tyrrel not owe Miss Mowbray what Pa 


“ST-RONAWS WELL. ~~) ati 


reparation lay in his power? Was it not his tempting of her to 
a secret marriage, while yet she was nothing more than a girl, 


that brought the mischief upon her ?” 

“ That is the point,” said Malcolm, ‘“ that makes the one diffi- 
culty. Still, I do not see how there can be much of a question. 
He could have no right to do fresh wrong for the mitigation of 
the consequences of preceding wrong—to sacrifice others to 
atone for injuries done by himself.” 

“Where would be the wrong to others?” said Florimel, now 
back to her former position. ‘Why could it matter to tenants or 
society which of the brothers happened to be an earl?” 

“ Only this, that, in the one case, the landlord of his tenants, 
the earl in society, would be an honourable man, in the other, a 
villain—a difference which might have consequences.” 

_ “But,” said Lady Clementina, “‘is not generosity something 
more than duty—something higher, something beyond it?” 

“Wes,” answered Malcolm, “so long as it does not go against 


duty, but keeps in the same direction, is in harmony with it I 


doubt much, though, whether, as we grow in what is good, we 


shall not come soon to see that generosity is but our duty, and 
nothing very grand and beyond it. But the man who chooses to © 


be generous at the expense of justice, even if he give up at the 
same time everything of his own, is but a poor creature beside 
him who, for the sake of the right, will not only consent to appear 
selfish in the eyes of men, but will go against his own heart and 
the comfort of those dearest to him. The man who accepts 
a crown may de more noble than he who lays one down and 
retires to the desert. Of the worthies who do things by faith, 
some are sawn asunder, and some subdue kingdoms. ‘The look 
of the thing is nothing.” 

Florimel made a neat little yawn over her work. Clementina’s 
hands rested a moment in her lap, and she looked thoughtful. 
But she resumed her work, and said no more. Malcolm began 


to read again. Presently Clementina interrupted him. She had . 


not been listening. 

of Why should a man want to be better than his neighbours, 
any more than to be richer?” she said, as if uttering her thoughts 
aloud. 

“Why, indeed,” responded Malcolm, “except he wants to 
become a hypocrite j re 

“Then, why do you talk for duty against generosity ?” 


“Oh !” said Malcolm, fora moment perplexed. He did not 


at once catch the relation of her ideas. ‘ Does a man ever do 


his duty,” he rejoined at length, “in order to be better than his 


186 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


neighbours? If he does, he won’t do it long. A man does his 
duty because he must. He has no choice but do it.” 

“‘Tfa man has no choice, how is it that so many men choose 
to do wrong ?” asked Clementina. 

“Tn virtue of being slaves and stealing the choice,” replied 
Malcolm. 

‘“¢ You are playing with words,” said Clementina. 

“Tf I am, at least I am not playing with things,” returned 


Malcolm. “If you like it better, my lady, I will say that, in 


declaring he has no choice, the man with all his soul chooses the 
good, recognizing it as the very necessity of his nature.” 

“Tf I know in myself that I have a choice, all you say goes for 
nothing,” persisted Clementina. “Iam not at all sure I would 
not do wrong for the sake of another. The more one preferred 
what was right, the greater would be the sacrifice.” 

“Tf it was for the grandeur of it, my lady, that would be for 
the man’s own sake, not his friend’s.” 

“* Leave that out then,” said Clementina. 

“The more a man loved another, then—say a woman, as here 
in the story—it seems to me, the more willing would he be that 
she should continue to suffer rather than cease by wrong. Think, 


my lady: the essence of wrong is injustice : to help another by — 


wrong Is to do injustice to somebody you do not know well enough 
to love for the sake of one you do know well enough to love. 
What honest man could think of that twice? The woman 
capable of accepting such a sacrifice would be contemptible.” 

‘She need not know of it.” 

“He would know that she needed but to know of it to despise 
him.” 

“Then might it not be noble in him to consent for her sake to 
be contemptible in her eyes ?” 

“Tf no others were concerned. And then there would be no 
injustice, therefore nothing wrong, and nothing contemptible.” 

“Might not what he did be wrong in the abstract, without 
having reference to any person ?” | 

“There is no wrong man can do but is a thwarting of the 
living Right. Surely you believe, my lady, that there is a living 
Power of right, whose justice is the soul of our justice, who z2// 
_ have right done, and causes even our own souls to take up arms 
against us when we do wrong.” 

“Tn plain language, I suppose you mean—Do I believe ina 
God?” 

“That is what I mean, if by a God you mean a being who 
cares about us, and loves justice—that is, fair play—one whom 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 187 


therefore we wrong to the very heart when we do a thing that is 
not just.” 

“‘T would gladly believe in such a being, if things were so that 
I could. As they are, I confess it seems to me the best thing to 
doubt it. I do doubt it very much. How can I help doubting 
it, when I see so much suffering, oppression, and cruelty in the 
world? If there were such a being as you say, would he permit 
the horrible things we hear of on every hand?” 

“I used to find that a difficulty. Indeed it troubled me 
sorely until I came to understand things better. I remember Mr 
Graham saying once something like this—I did not understand it 
for months after:,‘ Every kind-hearted person who thinks a great 
_deal of being comfortable, and takes prosperity to consist in being 
well-off, must be tempted to doubt the existence of a God.—And 
perhaps it is well they should be so tempted,’ he added.” 

“ Why did he add that?” 

“J think because such are in danger of believing in an evil 
God. And if men believed in an evil God, and had not the 
courage to defy him, they must sink to the very depths of 
savagery. Atleast that is what I ventured to suppose he meant.” 

Clementina opened her eyes wide, but said nothing. Religious 
people, she found, could think as boldly as she. 

“‘T remember all about it so well!” Malcolm added, thought- 
fully.- ‘‘ We had been talking about the Prometheus of A’schylus 
—how he would not give in to Jupiter.” 

“‘T am trying to understand,” said Clementina, and ceased— 
and a silence fell which for a few moments Malcolm could not 
break. For suddenly he felt as if he had fallen under the power 
of a spell. Something seemed to radiate from her silence which 
invaded his consciousness. It was as if the wind which dwells in 
the tree of life had waked in the twilight of heaven, and blew ~ 
upon his spirit. It was not that now first he saw that she was 
beautiful ; the moment his eyes fell upon her that morning in the 
park, he saw her beautiful as he had never seen woman before. 
Neither was it that now first he saw her good ; even in that first © 
interview her heart had revealed itself to him as very lovely. 
But the foolishness which flowed from her lips, noble and 
unselfish as it was, had barred the way betwixt his feelings and 
her individuality as effectually as if she had been the loveliest of 
Venuses lying uncarved in the lunar marble of Carrara. ‘There 
are men to whom silliness is an absolute freezing mixture ; to 
whose hearts a plain, sensible woman at once appeals as a woman, 
while no amount of beauty can serve as sweet oblivious antidote 
to counteract the nausea produced by folly. Malcolm had found 


Tee 


+ 
whe 


188 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


Clementina irritating, and the more irritating that she was so — 


- beautiful. . But at the first sound from her lips that indicated 


genuine and truthful thought, the atmosphere had begun to~ 


change; and at the first troubled gleam in her eyes, revealing 
that she pursued some dim-seen thing of the world of reality, a 
nameless potency throbbed into the spiritual space betwixt her 
_ and him, and embraced them in an aether of entrancing relation. 
All that had been needed to awake love to her was, that her soul, 
her self, should look out of its windows—and now he had caught 
a glimpse of it. Not all her beauty, not all her heart, not all her 
courage, could draw him while she would ride only a hobby-horse, 
however tight its skin might be stuffed with emotions.. But now 
who could tell how soon she might be charging in the front line 
of the Amazons of the Lord—on as real a horse as any in the 
heavenly army? For was she not thinking—the rarest human 
operation in the world ? 

“I will try to speak a little more clearly, my lady,” said Mal- 
colm. ‘If ease and comfort, and the pleasures of animal and 
intellectual being, were the best things to be had, as they are the 
only things most people desire, then that maker who did not care 
that his creatures should possess or were deprived of such, could 
not be a good God. But if the need with the lack of such 
things should be the means, the only means, of their gaining 
something in its very nature so much better that j: 

“ But,” interrupted Clementina, “ if they don’t care about any- 
thing better—if they are content as they are?” 

“Should he then who called them into existence be limited in 
his further intents for the perfecting of their creation, by their 
notions concerning themselves who cannot add to their life one 
_ cubit ?—such notions being often consciously dishonest? If he 
knows them worthless without something that he can give, shall 
he withhold his hand because they do not care that he should 
stretch it forth? Should a child not be taught to ride because he 
is content to run on. foot.” 

“But the means, according to your own theory, are so fright- 
- ful!” said Clementina. 

“ But suppose he knows that the barest beginnings of the good 
he intends them would not merely reconcile them to those means, 
but cause them to choose his will at any expense of suffering! I 
tell you, Lady Clementina,” continued Malcolm, rising, and 
approaching her a step or two, “if I had not the hope of one 
day being good like God himself, if I thought there was no 
escape out of the wrong and badness I feel within me and know 
T am not able to rid myself of without supreme help, not all 


ee ST. RONAN’S WELL. 389 


ne wealth and honours of the world could reconcile me to 
ife.” 

“ You do not know what you are talking of,” said Clementina, 
coldly and softly, without lifting her head. 

“1 do,” said Malcolm. 

“You mean you would kill yourself but for your belief in 
God?” 

“ By life, I meant dezmg, my lady. If there were no God, 1 
dared not kill myself, lest worse,should be waiting me in the 
awful voids beyond. If there be a God, living or dying is all one 

-—-s0 it be what he pleases.” 

‘“‘T have read of saints,” said Clementina, with cool dissatisfac- 
tion in her tone, “uttering such sentiments,”———“ Seztements !” 
said Malcolm to himself“ and I do not doubt such were felt 
or at least imagined by them ; but I fail to understand how, even 
supposing these things true, a young man like yourself should, in 
the midst of a busy world, and with an occupation which, to say 
the least, , 

Here she paused. After a moment Malcolm ventured to help 
her. 

“Ts so far from an ideal one—would you say, my lady P” 

“‘ Something like that,” answered Clementina, and concluded 
—‘ J] wonder how you can have arrived at such ideas.” 

“There is nothing wonderful in it, my lady,” returned 
Malcolm. ‘‘Why should not a youth, a boy, a child, for as a 
child I thought about what the kingdom of heaven could mean, 
desire with all his might that his heart and mind should be clean, 
his will strong, his thoughts just, his head clear, his soul dwelling 
in the place of life? Why should I not desire that my life 
should be a complete thing, and an outgoing of life to my neigh- 

-bour? Some people are content not to do mean actions: I want 
to become incapable of a mean thought or feeling; and so I 
shall be before all is done.” 

“Still, how did you come to begin so much earlier than 
others ? ” : 

* All I know as to that, my lady, is that I had the best man 
in the world to teach me.” 

“ And why did not I have such a man to teach me? I could 
have learned of such a man too.” 

“Tf you are able now, my lady, it does not follow that it would 
have been the best thing for you sooner. Some children learn 
far better for not being begun early, and will get before others 
who have been at it for years. As you grow ready for it, some- 
where or other you will find what is needful for you—in a book, 


THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


or a friend, or, best of all in your own thoughts—-the eternal 
thought speaking in your thought.” 

It flashed through her mind, “ Can it be that I have found it 
now—on the lips of a groom ?” | 

Was it her own spirit or another that laughed strangely within 

her. 

“Well, as you seem to know so much better than other 
people,” she said, “‘I want you to explain to me how the God in 
~ whom you profess to believe can make use of such cruelties. It 

seems to me more like the revelling of a demon.” 
_. “My lady!” remonstrated Malcolm, “I never pretended to 
explain. All I say is, that, if I had reason for hoping there was 
a God, and if I found, from my own experience and the testi- 
mony of others, that suffering led to valued good, I should think, 
_ hope, expect to find that he caused suffering for reasons of the 
highest, purest and kindest import, such as when understood 
must be absolutely satisfactory to the sufferers themselves. Ifa 
man cannot believe that, and if he thinks the pain the worst evil 
of all, then of course he cannot believe there is a good God. 
Still, even then, if he would lay claim to being a lover of truth, he 
ought to give the idea—the mere zdea of God fair play, lest there 

- should be a good God after all, and he all his life doing him the 
~ injustice of refusing him his trust and obedience.” 

“And how are we to give the mere idea of him fair play?” 
asked Clementina, rather contemptuously. But I think she was 
fighting emotion, confused and troublesome. 

_“ By looking to the heart of whatever claims to be a revelation 


== of him.” 


“ It would take a lifetime to read the half of such.” 

“T will correct myself, and say—whatever of the sort has best 
claims on your regard—whatever any person you look upon as 
good, believes and would have you believe—at the same time 
doing diligently what you kvow to be right; for, if there be a 


God, that must be his will, and, if there be not, it remains our 


ecuty.” 
‘$6 All this time, Florimel was working away at her embroidery, a 
little smile of satisfaction flickering on her face. She was 
pleased to hear her clever friend talking so with her strange 
vassal. As to what they were saying, she had no doubt it was 
all right, but to her it was not interesting. She was mildly 
debating with herself whether she should tell her friend about 
Lenorme. 

Clementina’s work now lay on her lap and her hands on her 
work, while her eyes at one time gazed on the grass at her feet, 


- 


a 


an it eae a ee a oe le 
a ey ie ae Sy : x L 
< ent =e 5 aaa ae Maas a 


= gfe : 
3 x 


ST. RONAN’S WELL. 191 


at another searched Malcolm’s face with a troubled look. The 
light of Malcolm’s candle was beginning to penetrate into her | 
dusky room, the power of his faith to tell upon the weakness of 
her unbelief. There is no strength in unbelief. Even the un- 
belief of what is false is no source of might. It is the truth 
shining from behind that gives the strength to disbelieve. But 
into the house where the refusal of the bad is followed by no 
embracing of the good—the house empty and swept and 

- garnished—the bad will return, bringing with it seven evils that 
are worse. 

If something of that sacred mystery, holy in the heart of the 
Father, which draws together the souls of man and woman, was 
at work between them, let those scoff at the mingling of love 
and religion who know nothing of either; but man or woman 
who, loving woman or man, has never in that love lifted the heart 
to the Father, and everyone whose divine love has not yet cast at 
least an arm round the human love, must take heed what they 
think of themselves, for they are yet but paddlers in the tide of 
the eternal ocean. Love is a lifting no less than a swelling of 
the heart. What changes, what metamorphoses, transformations, 
purifications, glorifications, this or that love must undergo ere it 
take its eternal place in the kingdom of heaven, through all its - 
changes yet remaining, in its one essential-root, the same, let the 
coming redemption reveal. The hope of all honest lovers will 
lead them to the vision. Only let them remember that love 
must dwell in the will as well as in the heart. 

But whatever the nature of Malcolm’s influence upon Lady 
Clementina, she resented it, thinking towards and speaking to 
him repellently. Something in her did not like him. She knew 
he did not approve of her, and she did not like being dis- 
approved of. Neither did she approve of him. He was pedan- 
tic—and far too good for an honest and brave youth: not that 
she could say she had seen dishonesty or cowardice in him, or 
that she could have told which vice she would prefer to season 
his goodness withal, and bring him to the level of her ideal. 
And then, for all her theories of equality, he was a groom—there- 
fore to a lady ought to be repulsive—at least when she found him ~ 
intruding into the chambers of her thoughts—personally intrud- 
ing—yes, and met there by some traitorous feelings whose 
behaviour she could not understand. She resented it all, and 
felt towards Malcolm as if he were guilty of forcing himself into 
the sacred presence of her bosom’s queen—whereas it was his 
angel that did so, his Idea, over which he had no control. 
Ciementina would have turned that Idea out, and when she © 


7 


‘ oe, . 
Sa MS A at 2 
#. aoa enw ee 
a | eae sie 
ae mgt 4 
nom oe 


ie eM ia Se ee eee nt Loe ee aS 4 tale 
ie ante este Mt 
=e nee eee ee gg 


“1092 | THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


oe found she could not, her soul started up wrathful, in maidenly 


: disgust with her heart, and cast resentment upon everything in = 
i him whereon it would hang. She had not yet, however, come to ‘2 
ask herself any questions; she had only begun to fear that a = 
woman to whom a person from the stables could be interesting, 
even in the form of an unexplained riddle, must be herself a per- 


son of low tastes; and that, for all her pride in coming of | 
honest people, there must be a drop of bad blood in her ; 
somewhere. 

For a time her eyes had been fixed on her work, and there 
had been silence in the little group. 

“My lady!” said Malcolm, and drew a step nearer to 
Clementina. B. 

She looked up. How lovely she was with the trouble in her : 
eyes! Thought Malcolm, “ If only she were what she might os 
be! Ifthe form were but filled with the spirit! the body with aa 
life !” 

““My lady !” he repeated, just a little embarrassed, “I should 
like to tell you one thing that came to me only lately—came to 
me when thinking over the hard words you spoke to me that day ~~ 
in the park. But it is something so awful that I dare not speak ce 
of it except you will make your heart solemn to hear it.” 

He stopped, with his eyes questioning hers. Clementina’s 
first thought once more was madness, but as she steadily returned 
his look, her face grew pale, and she gently bowed her head in 
consent. 

“TJ will try then,” said Malcolm. “—Everybody knows what 
few think about, that once there lived a man who, in the broad . 

_- face of prejudiced respectability, truth-hating hypocrisy, common- 
; place religion, and dull book-learning, affirmed that he knew the 
7 secret of life, and understood the heart and history of men—who 
wept over their sorrows, yet worshipped the God of the whole 
earth, saying that he had known him from eternal days. The 

z same said that he came to do what the Father did, and that he 
___ did nothing but what he had learned of the Father. They killed . 
him, you know, my lady, in a terrible way that one is afraid even i 

to think of. But he insisted that he laid down his life ; that he a 

_ allowed them to take it. Now I ask whether that grandest thing, 
crowning his life, the yielding of it to the hand of violence, he had 
not learned also from his Father. Was his death the only thing 
he had not so learned? If1am night, and I do not say 7 in 
doubt, then the suffering of those three terrible hours was a type 

_ of the suffering of the Father himself in bringing sons and 
A daughters through the cleansing and glorifying fires, without 


GR es he aed Re 
ail sie Pays 7 % amNY es 


ues 


: Aer 2° ST RONAN'S WHEL, 2 193° 


i which the created cannot be made the very children of God, par- 
i takers of the divine nature and peace. Then from the lowest, 
weakest tone of suffering, up to the loftiest pitch, the divinest 
acme of pain, there is not one pang to which the sensorium of 
the universe does not respond ; never an untuneful vibration of 
nerve or spirit but thrills beyond the brain or the heart of the 
3 sufferer to the brain, the heart of the universe ; and God, in the 
~~ simplest, most literal, fullest sense, and not by sympathy alone, 
suffers zt his creatures.” 

‘ae “6 Well, but he is able to bear it; they are not: I cannot bring 
| myself to see the right of it.” 

“ Nor will you, my lady, so long as you cannot bring yourself 
to see the good they get by it—My lady, when I was trying my 
best with poor Kelpie, you would not listen to me.” 

“ You are ungenerous,” said Clementina, flushing. 

“My lady,” persisted Malcolm, “ you would not understand 
me. You denied mea heart because of what seemed in your 
eyes cruelty. I knew that I was saving her from death at the 
least, probably from a life of torture : God may be good, though 
to you his government may seem to deny it. There is but one 
way God cares to govern—the way of the Father-king—and that 
way is at hand.—But I have yet given you only the one half of 
my. theory: If God feels pain, then he puts forth his will to bear 
and subject that pain; if the pain comes to him from his crea- 
ture, living in him, will the endurance of God be confined to 
himself, and not, in its turn, pass beyond the bounds of his 
individuality, and react upon the sufferer to his sustaining? I do 
not mean that sustaining which a man feels from knowing his 
will one with God’s and God zt#h him, but such sustaining as 
those his creatures also may have who do not or cannot know 
whence the sustaining comes. I believe that the endurance oi 
God goes forth to uphold, that his patience is strength to his _ 
creatures, and that, while the whole creation may well groan, its 
suffering is more bearable therefore than it seems to the repug- 
nance of our regard.” 

“That is a dangerous doctrine,” said Clementina. 

“Will it then make the cruel man more cruel to be told that 
God is caring for the tortured creature from the citadel of whose 
life he would force an answer to save his own from the sphinx 
that must at last devour him, let him answer ever so wisely? 
Or will it make the tender less pitiful to be consoled a little in 
the agony of beholding what they cannot alleviate? Many 
hearts are from sympathy as sorely in need of comfort as those 

with whom they suffer. And to such I have one word more—to 
a Ni 


SE et NE ES eh rey Eg be DARE. MOM Soa ar Ne ne OO Tear Les CORRELA ASN RR Scere eee 
Wee a Ra re ee Sp) Pray oe eth ig PCa Pas thE EEN Soe Waa sie? pet , ies Seale: eae Py 
Ah Sa ve } : . ae ee ithe gee eg hy a oer Path Rerane iy af PRO ve ek" ean) r 


Me, 
oe 


194 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE. 


your heart, my lady, if it will consent to be consoled: The 
animals, I believe, suffer less than we, because they scarcely think 
of the past, and not at all of the future. It is the same with 
children, Mr Graham says; they suffer less than grown people, 
and for the same reason. To get back something of this privi- 
lege of theirs, we have to be obedient and take no thought for 
the morrow.” 

Clementina took up her work. Malcolm walked away. 

“Malcolm,” cried his mistress, “are you not going on with 
the book ?” 

“I hope your ladyship will excuse me,” said Malcolm. “I 
would rather not read more just at present.” 

It may seem incredible that one so young as Malcolm should 
have been able to talk thus, and indeed my report may have 
given words more formal and systematic than his really were. 
For the matter of them, it must be remembered that he was not 
young in the effort to do and understand ; and that the advan- 


mee to such a pupil of such a teacher as Mr Graham is illimit- 
able. 


CHAPTER XLII. 
A PERPLEXITY. 


AFTER Malcolm’s departure, Clementina attempted to find what 
Florimel thought of the things her strange groom had been say- 
ing: she found only that she neither thought at all about them, 
nor had a single true notion concerning the matter of their con- 
versation. Seeking to interest her in it and failing, she found 
however that she had greatly deepened its impression upon 
herself. 

Florimel had not yet quite made up her mind whether or not 
she should open her heart to Clementina, but she approached 
the door of it in requesting her opinion upon the matter of 
marriage between persons of social conditions widely parted— 
“frightfully sundered,” she said. Now Clementina was a radical 
of her day, a reformer, a leveller—one who complained bitterly 
that some should be so rich, and some so poor. In this she was 
perfectly honest. Her own wealth, from a vague sense of 
unrighteousness in the possession of it, was such a burden to 


her, that she threw it away where often it made other people - 


Fe r Sh ae aie ST ES We a Ae UIs Da 
eRe Pa ts Anta ONG ae ea I ey 
2 PB g ele a Fg a SORT a Fins y a a ME NS nh 
j A iy Pat Sho sce Re nA ; 


a Nie a +e, a ata io ee Me i Peas 


A PERPLEXITY. 195 
stumble if not fall. She professed to regard all men as equal, 
and believed that she did so. She was powerful in her contempt 
of the distinctions made between certain of the classes, but had 
' Signally failed in some bold endeavours to act as if they had no 
existence except in the whims of society. As yet no man had 
sought her nearer regard for whom she would deign to cherish 
even friendship. As to marriage, she professed, right honestly, 
an entire disinclination, even aversion to it, saying to herself that 
if ever she should marry it must be, for the sake of protest and 
example, one notably beneath her in social condition. He must 
be a gentleman, but his claims to that rare distinction should lie 
only in himself, not his position, in what he was, not what he 
had. But it is one thing to have opinions, and another to be 
called upon to show them beliefs ; it is one thing to declare all 
men equal, and another to tell the girl who looks up to you for 
advice, that she ought to feel herself at perfect liberty to marry 
—say a groom; and when Florimel proposed the general ques- 
tion, Clementina might well have hesitated. And indeed she 
did hesitate—but in vain she tried to persuade herself that it was 
solely for the sake of her young and inexperienced friend that 
she did so. As little could she honestly say that it was from 
doubt of the principles she had so long advocated. Had 
Florimel been open with her, and told her what sort of inferior 
was in her thoughts, instead of representing the gulf between 
them as big enough to swallow the city of Rome; had she told 
her that he was a gentleman, a man of genius and gifts, noble 
and large-hearted, and indeed better-bred than any other man 
she knew, the fact of his profession would only have clenched 
Lady Clementina’s decision in his favour; and if Florimel had 
been honest enough to confess the encouragement she had given 
him—nay, the absolute love-passages there had been, Clementina 
would at once have insisted that her friend should write an 
apology for her behaviour to him, should dare the dastard world, 
and offer to marry him when he would. But, Florimel putting 
the question as she did, how should Clementina imagine any- 
thing other than that it referred to Malcolm? and a strange con- 
fusion of feeling was the consequence. Her thoughts heaved in 
her like the half-shaped monsters of a spiritual chaos, and 
amongst them was one she could not at all identify. A direct 
answer she found impossible. She found also that in presence 
of Florimel, so much younger than herself, and looking up to 
her for advice, she dared not even let the questions now pressing 
for entrance appear before her consciousness. She therefore 
declined giving an answer of any sort—was not prepared with 


196 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


one, she said; much was to be considered; no two cases were 
just alike. 

They were summoned to tea, after which she retired to her 
room, shut the door, and began to think—an operation which, 
seldom easy if worth anything, was in the present case peculiarly 
difficult, both because Clementina was not used to it, and the 
subject-object of it was herself. I suspect that self-examination 
is seldom the most profitable, certainly it is sometimes the most 
unpleasant, and always the most difficult of moral actions—that 
is, to perform after a genuine fashion. I know that very little of 
what passes for it has the remotest claim to reality ; and I will 
not say it has never to be done; but I am certain that a good 
deal of the energy spent by some devout and upright people on 
trying to understand themselves and their own motives, would 
be expended to better purpose, and with far fuller attainment 
even in regard to that object itself, in the endeavour to under- 
stand God, and what he would have us to do. 

Lady Clementina’s attempt was as honest as she dared make 
it. It went something after this fashion: 

“How is it possible I should counsel a young creature like 
that, with all her gifts and privileges, to marry a groom—to bring 
the stable into her chamber? If I did—if she did, has she the 
strength to hold her face to it?—Yes, I know how different he is 
from any other groom that ever rode behind a lady! but does 
she understand him? Is she capable of such a regard for him 
as could outlast a week of closer intimacy? At her age it is 
impossible she should know what she was doing in daring such a 
thing. It would be absolute ruin to her. And how could I 
advise her to do what I could not do myself?—But then if she 
is in love with him ?” 

She rose and paced the room—not hurriedly—she never did 
anything hurriedly—but yet with unleisurely steps, until, catching 
sight of herself in the glass, she turned away as from an intruding 
and unwelcome presence, and threw herself on her couch, buty- 
ing her face in the pillow. Presently, however, she rose again, 
her face glowing, and again walked up and down the room— 
almost swiftly now. I can but indicate the course of her 
thoughts. ; 

“If what he says be true !—It opens another and higher life. 
—What a man he is! and so young !—Has he not convicted me 
of feebleness and folly, and made me ashamed of myself ?— 
What better thing could man or woman do for another than 
lower her in her own haughty eyes, and give her a chance of 
becoming such as she had but dreamed of the shadow of >—He 


Rm TE wt 


a > * 
ae 
av 


A PERSLEXILY. 197 


is a gentleman—every inch! Hear him talk !—Scotch, no doubt, 
—and—well—a /it#/e long-winded—a bad fault at his age! But 
see him ride !—-see him swim !—and to save a bird !—But then 
he is hard—severe at best! All religious people are so severe! 
They think they are safe themselves, and so can afford to be 
hard on others! He would serve his wife the same as his mare 
if he thought she required it!—And I ave known women for 
whom it might be the best thing. Iam a fool! a soft-hearted 
idiot! He told me I would give a baby a lighted candle if it 
cried for it.—Or didn’t he? I believe he never uttered a word 
of the sort ; he only thought it.”—As she said this, there came a 
strange light in her eyes, and the light seemed to shine from all 
around them as well as from the orbs themselves. 

Suddenly she stood still as a statue in the middle of the room, 
and her face grew white as the marble of one. For a minute 
she stood thus—without a definite thought in her brain. The 
first that came was something like this: ‘Then Florimel does 
love him !—and wants help to decide whether she shall marry 
him or not! Poor weak little wretch !—Then if I were in love 
with him, I would marry him—would I ?—It is well, perhaps, 
that ’'m not !—But she! he is ten times too good for her? He 
would be utterly thrown away on her! But Iam Aer counsel, 
not his; and what better could come to her than have such a 
man for a husband; and instead of that contemptible Liftore, 
with his grand earldom ways and proud nose! He has little to 
be proud of that must take to his rank forit! Fancy a right 
man condescending to be proud of his own rank! Pooh! But 
this groom is a man! alla man! grand from the centre out, as 
the great God made him !—Yes, it must bea great God that 
made such a man as that !—that is, if he zs the same he looks— 
the same all through !—Perhaps there are more Gods than one, 
and one of them is the devil, and made Jultore! But am I 
bound to give her advice? Surely not. I may refuse. And 
rightly too! A woman that marries from advice, instead of 
from a mighty love, is wrong. I need wot speak. I shall just 
tell her to consult her own heart —and conscience, and follow 
them.—But, gracious me! am / then going to fall in love with 
the fellow ?—this stable-man who pretends to know his maker! 
Certainly not. There is zothing of the kind in my thoughts. 
Besides, how should Z know what falling in love means? I 
never was in love in my life, and don’t mean to be. It I were 
so foolish as imagine myself in any danger, would I be such a, 
fool as be caught in it? I should think not indeed! What it I 
do think of this man in a way I never thought of anyone before, 


oi “198 | see THE 2 MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


is there anything odd in that? How should I np it whieh ve 
is unlike anyone I ever saw before? One must think of people | 
as one finds them. Does it follow that I have power over | 
myself no longer, and must go where any chance feeling ee a 
choose to lead 1 mers ae 
Here came a pause. Then she started, and once more began — a 
walking up-and down the room, now hurriedly indeed. \ oe 
“TJ will not have it!” she cried aloud—and checked herself, 
dashed at the sound of her own voice. But her soul went on | 
loud enough for the thought-universe to hear. “There can’t be — 
a God, or he would never subject his women to what they don’t * 
choose. If a God had made them, he would have them queens — 
over themselves at least-—and I wil/ be queen, and then perhaps — 
a God did make me. A slave to things inside myself !—thoughts _ 
and feelings I refuse, and which I ought to have control over! = ‘ 
I don’t want this in me, yet I can’t drive it out! I wé// drive it~ 
out. It is not me. A slave on my own ground! worst slaveua 
of all!—It will not go.—That must be bec cause I do not willit 
strong enough. And if,I don’t will it—my God !—what does” 4 
that mean ?—That I am a slave already ?” ee 
Again she threw herself on her couch, but only to rise and 
yet again pace the room. — 
“Nonsense! it is zot love. It is merely that nobody coulda is 
help thinking about one who had been so much before her mind — 
for so long—one too who had made her think. Ah! there, I do — 
believe, lies the real secret of it all!—There’s the main cause of 
my trouble—and nothing worse! I must not be foolhardy " 
hough, and remain in danger, especially as, for anything I can 
tell, he may be in love with that foolish child. People, they say, iz | 
like people that are not at all like themselves. Then I am sure - 
he might like me!—She seems to be in love with him! I know ‘. r 
she cannot be half a quarter in real love with him: it’s not in = 
her.” , s 
She did not rejoin Florimel that evening: it was part of the i 
understanding between the ladies that each should be at absolute 
liberty. She | slept little during the night, starting awake as often 
as she began to slumber, and before the morning came was a 
good deal humbled. All sorts of means are kept at work to 
make the children obedient and simple and noble. Joy and Be. 
sorrow are servants in God’s nursery; pain and delight, ecslaga a 
and despair, minister in it; but amongst them there is none aes 
more marvellous in its potency than that mingling of all pains | 
and pleasures to which we specially give the name of Love. a ; 


ws 


When she appeared at breakfast, her countenance bore tracesss Be 


Ay 


THE MIND OF THE AUTHOR. 199 


of her suffering, but a headache, real enough, though little heeded 
in the commotion upon whose surface it floated, gave answer to 
the not very sympathetic solicitude of Florimel. Happily the 
day of their return was near at hand. Some talk there had been 
of protracting their stay, but to that Clementina avoided any 
farther allusion. She must put an end to an intercourse which 
she was compelled to admit was, at least, in danger of becoming 
dangerous. ‘This much she had with certainty “discovered con- 
cerning her own feelings, that her heart grew hot and cold at the 


thought of the young man belonging more to the mistress who 


could not understand him than to herself who imagined she 
could; and it wanted no experience in love to see that it was 
therefore time to be on her guard against herself, for to herself 
she was growing perilous. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 
THE MIND OF THE AUTHOR. 


THE next was the last day of the reading. ‘They must finish the 
tale that morning, and on the following set out to return home, 
travelling as they had come. Clementina had not the strength 
of mind to deny herself that last indulgence—a long four days’ 
ride in the company of this strangest of attendants. After that, 
if not the deluge, yet a few miles of Sahara. 

“<Tt is the opinion of many that he has entered into a 
Moravian mission, for the use of which he had previously drawn 
considerable sums,’ ” read Malcolm, and paused, with book half 
closed. 

“Is that all?” asked Florimel. 

“Not quite, my lady,” he answered. “There isn’t much 
more, but I was just thinking whether we hadn’t come upon 
something worth a little reflection—whether we haven’t here a 
window into the mind of the author of Waverley, whoever he 
may be, Mr Scott, or another.” 

“You mean?” said Clementina, interrogatively, and looked 
up from her work, but not at the speaker. 

“J mean, my lady, that perhaps we here get a glimpse of the 
author’s own opinions, or feelings rather, perhaps.” 

“T do not.see what of the sort you can find there,” returned 
Clementina. 

“ Neither should I, my lady, if Mr Graham had not taught me 


sane gee A teats ae ees dB Fo 
2200” _ DLHE MARQUIS OF 
__ how to find Shakspere in his plays. A man’s own nature, he» 
__used to say, must lie at the heart of what he does, even though 

_ hot another man should be sharp enough to find him there. 
_ Not a hypocrite, the most consummate, he would say, but has — 
his hypocrisy written in every line of his countenance and : 
motion of his fingers. The heavenly Lavaters can read lt, 
though the earthly may not be able.” Oe 
“And you think you can find him out?” said Clementina, — 
HN dryly. pe i 
kt “Not the hypocrite, my lady, but Mr Scott here. He is only — 
round a single corner. And one thing is—he believes in a 
God.” we 
““ How do you make that out?” % “i 
le” 


“Fle means this Mr Tyrrel for a fine fellow, and on the who 
approves of him—does he not, my lady?” a 
“ Certainly.” a 
“Of course all that duelling is wrong. But then Mr Scott 
only half disapproves of it.—And it is almost a pity it is wrong,” — 
remarked Malcolm with a laugh; “it is such an easy way of — 
settling some difficult things. “Yet I hate it. It’s so cowardly. — 
I may be a better shot than the other, and know it all the time. — 
_ He may know it too, and have twice my courage. And I-may 
think him in the wrong, when he £vows himself in the right— 
There zs one man IJ have felt as if I should like to kill. When i 


| was a boy I killed the cats that ate my pigeons.” a 
A look of horror almost distorted Lady Clementina’s coun- — 
tenance. ) “ 


“I don't know what to say next, my lady,” he went on, with a — 
smile, “because I have no way of telling whether you looked — 

_ shocked for the cats I killed, or the pigeons they killed, or the — 
man I would rather see killed than have him devour more of my ea: 
—white doves,” he concluded sadly, with a little shake of the 
head.—‘ But, please God,” he resumed, “I shall manage to_ 
keep them from him, and let him live to be as old as Methuselah | 
_if he can, even if he should grow in cunning and wickedness all 
the time. I wonder how he will feel when he comes to see what 
_asneaking cat he is. But this is not what we set out for—Mr_ 
Tyrrel, then, the author’s hero, joins the Moravians at last.” 
‘What are they?” questioned Clementina. iia 
“Simple, good, practical Christians, I believe,” answered 
Malcolm. ae 
“ But he only does it when disappointed in love.” 
“No, my lady; he is not disappointed. The lady is only 
dead.” | oe 


. 


ae 
«9, Cad 


Po ee 


any MIND OF THE AUTHOR. 201 


Prementiria stared a moment—then dropped her head as if 
she understood. Presently she raised it again and said, 

“‘ But, according to what you said the other day, in doing so 
he was Pee fine altogether the duties of the station in which 
God had ca'led him.” 

“That is truc. It would have been a far grander thing to do 
his duty where |e was, than to find anot. e> place and another 
duty. An earldcm a lotted is better than « mi s’on preferred.” 

“And at least you must confess,” int.r..pted Clementina, 
“that he only took to religion because he was unhappy.” 

_ Certainly, my lady, it is the nobler thing to seek God in the 
days of gladness, to look up to him in trustful bliss when the sun 
is shining. But if a man be miserable, if the storm is coming 
down on him, what is he to do? ‘There is nothing mean in 
seeking God then, though it would have been nobler to seek him 
before.—But to return to the matter in hand: the author of 
Waverley makes his noble-hearted hero, whom assuredly he had 
no intention of disgracing, turn Moravian ; and my conclusion 


from it is that, in his judgment, nobleness leads in the direction 


of religion ; that he considers it natural for a noble mind to seek 
comfort there for its deepest sorrows.” 

“ Well, it may be so; but what is religion without consistency 
in action ?” said Clementina. 

“ Nothing,” answered Malcolm. 

“Then how can you, professing to believe as you do, cherish 
such feelings towards any man as you have just been confessing?” 

“J don’t cherish them, my lady. But I succeed in avoiding 
hate better than suppressing contempt, which perhaps is the 
worse of the two. ‘There may be some respect in hate.” 

Here he paused, for here was a chance that was not likely to 
recur. He might say before two ladies what he could not say 
before one. If he could but rouse Florimel’s indignation! Then 
at any suitable time only a word more would be needful to 
direct it upon the villain. Clementina’s eyes continued fixed 
upon him. At length he spoke. 

“‘T will try to make two pictures in your mind, my lady, if you 
will help me to paint them. In my mind they are not painted 
pictures.—A long sea-coast, my lady, and a stormy night ;—the 
sea-horses rushing in from the north-east, and the snow-flakes 
beginning to fall. On the margin of the sea a long dune or sand- 
bank, and on the top of it, her head bare, and her thin cotton 
dress nearly torn from her by the wind, a young woman, worn 
and white, with an old faded tartan shawl tight about her 
shoulders, and the shape of a baby inside it, upon her arm.” 


- ay aps ar 


rk Dae Ls car S 
Tet > 


202 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


“Oh! she doesn’t mind the cold,” said Florimel. “When I | 


was there, I didn’t mind it a bit.” 

“She does not mind the cold,” answered Malcolm; “ she is 
far too miserable for that.” 

“But she has no business to take the baby out on such a 


night,” continued Florimel, carelessly critical. ‘You ought to - 


have painted her by the fireside. They have all of them firesides 
to sit at. I have seen them through the windows many a time.” 

“Shame or cruelty had driven her from it,” said Malcolm, 
“and there she was.” 

“Do you mean you saw her yourself wandering about?” 
asked Clementina. 

“Twenty times, my lady.” 

Clementina was silent. 

“Well, what comes next ?” said Florimel. . 

“ Next comes a young gentleman ;—but this is a picture in 
another frame, although of the same night ;—a young gentleman 
in evening dress, sipping his madeira, warm and comfortable, in 
the bland temper that should follow the best of dinners, his face 
beaming with satisfaction after some boast concerning himself, 
or with silent success in the concoction of one or two compliments 
to have at hand when he joins the ladies in the drawing-room.” 

“Nobody can help such differences,” said Florimel. “If 
there were nobody rich, who would there be to do anything for 
the poor? It’s not the young gentleman’s fault that he is better 
born and has more money than the poor girl.” 

“No,” said Malcolm; “but what if the poor girl has the 
young gentleman’s child to carry about from morning to night.” 

“Oh, well! I suppose she’s paid for it,” said Florimel, whose 
innocence must surely have been supplemented by some stupidity, 
born of her flippancy. 


“Do be quiet, Florimel,” said Clementina. ‘You don’t — 


know what you are talking about.” 

Her face was in a glow, and one glance at it set Florimel’s in 
a flame. She rose without a word, but with a look of mingled 
confusion and offence, and walked away. Clementina gathered 
her work together. But ere she followed her, she turned to 
Malcolm, looked him calmly in the face, and said, 

“No one can blame you for hating such a man.” 

“Indeed, my lady, but some one would—the only one for 
whose praise or blame we ought to care more than a straw or 
two, He tells us we are neither to judge nor to hate. But—” 

“T cannot stay and talk with you,” said Clementina. “You 
must pardon me if I follow your mistress,” 


~~ 


i ape cleared ott A ae oe te Fe pores pee Ty aye eee oe ae ee” OMe he a lat ay a ee a, Oe 
Ses a bes Ee a ee Mie me X cas ike ; is AS on Mite te Cals te y 
4, thy Ke Se Was ae : oe ees iM iat ra er a. re 1D ate = ' r Bg Thee «Yeti oy ee 


Me 


THE RIDE HOME, 9 203 


Another moment and he would have told her all, in the hope 
of her warning Fiorimel. But she was gone. 


CHAPTER XLV. 


THE RIDE HOME. 


' Frorimet was offended with Malcolm: he had put her con- 


fidence in him to shame, speaking of things to which he ought 
not once to have even alluded. But Clementina was not only 
older than Florimel, but in her loving endeavours for her kind, 
had heard many a pitiful story, and was now saddened by the 


~~ 


Sha 


tale, not shocked at the teller. Indeed, Malcolm’s mode of ac- . 


quainting her with the grounds of the feeling she had challenged 
pleased both her heart and her sense of what was becoming ; 
while, as a partisan of women, finding a man also of their part, 
she was ready to offer him the gratitude of all womankind in 
her one typical self. ‘What a rough diamond is here!” she 
thought. “ Rough!” echoed her heart: “how is he rough? 
What fault could the most fastidious find with his manners? 
True, he speaks as a servant—and where would be his manners 
if he did not? But neither in tone, expression, nor way of 
thinking, is he in the smallest degree servile. He is like a great 
pearl, clean out of the sea—bred, it is true, in the midst of 
strange surroundings, but pure as the moonlight ; and if a man, 
so environed, yet has grown so grand, what might he not become 
with such privileges as nr 

Good Clementina—what did she mean? Did she imagine 
that such mere gifts as she might give him, could do more for 
him than the great sea, with the torment and conquest of its 
winds and tempests ? more than his own ministrations of love, 
and victories over passion and pride? What the final touches 
of the shark-skin are to the marble that stands lord of the flaming 
bow, that only can wealth and position be to the man who has 
yielded neither to the judgments of the world nor the drawing 
of his own inclinations, and so has submitted himself to the 
chisel and mallet of his maker. Society is the barber who trims 
a man’s hair, often very badly too—and pretends he made it 
grow. If her owner should take her, body and soul, and make 
of her being a gift to his—ah, then, indeed! But Clementina 
was not yet capable of perceiving that, while what she had in 


| er Geri to , offer mig, oht hurt him, it pire do “aan jee 


Age him in love with her. Possibly she admired him too much to a 
attribute to him such an intolerable and insolent presumption as 
that would have appeared to her own inferior self. Still, she was” 


measurably beyond even the aspiration of the man, to make him . 
offer implicit of hand and havings, that he would reach out his 


_ which determination, whether she knew it or not, there was as 
much modesty and gracious doubt of her own worth as there | 


_that in this groom he had shown her what he could do in the. 7 


man or two like him. In the meantime she meant to enjoy— 


_ came round and stood at the door—all but Kelpie. The ladies 


_ mistress up, and then go back to the stable for Kelpie. In a “a } 
moment they were in the wood, crossing its shadows, It was — is 


good. Her feeling concerning him, however, was all the time — z 
far indeed from folly. Not for a moment did she imagine 


far indeed from certain, were she, as: befits the woman so im-— 
to take them. And certainly that ‘she was not going to do !—in ae 


was pride and maidenly recoil. In one resolve she was confident, 
that her behaviour towards him should be such as to keep him 
just where he was, affording him no smallest excuse for aking Be 
one step nearer: and they would soon be in London, where she — 7 Ee | 
would see nothing, or next to nothing more of him. But should | 
she ever cease to thank God, that was, if ever she came to find him, . 3 ch 


way of making aman! Heartily she wished she knew a noble- 


with carefulness—the ride to London, after which things should 
be as before. a 
The morning arrived; they finished breakfast; the ores 2 


mounted. Ah, what a morning to leave the country and go — 
back to London! ‘The sun shone clear on the dark pine-woods; 
the birds were radiant in song; all under the trees the ferns were 
ynrolling each its mystery of ever generating life; the soul of 
the summer was there whose mere idea sends the heart into the 
eyes, while itself flits mocking from the cage of words. A — 
gracious mystery it was—in the air, in the sun, in the earth, 
in their own hearts. The lights of heaven. mingled and 
played with the shadows of the earth, which looked like the 
souls of the trees, that had been, out wandering all night, and 
had been overtaken by the sun ere they could re-enter their dark 
cells. Every motion of the horses under them was like a 


throb of the heart of the earth, every bound like a sigh of her — 4 


bliss... Florimel shouted almost like a boy with ecstasy, and Zs 


2 ~Clementina’s moonlight went very near changing into sunlig he Be 
as she gazed, and breathed, and knew that she was alive. 4 


‘They started without Malcolm, for he must always put his 


THE RIDE HOME. 205 


like swimming their horses through a sea of shadows. Then 
came a little stream and the horses splashed it about like children 
from very gamesomeness. Half a mile more and there was a 
saw-mill, with a mossy wheel, a pond behind, dappled with sun 


and shade, a dark rush of water along a brown trough, and the ~ 


air full of the sweet smell of sawn wood. Clementina had not 
once looked behind, and did not know whether Malcolm had 
yet joined them or not. All at once the wild vitality of Kelpie 
filled the space beside her, and the voice of Malcolm was in her 
ears. She turned herhead. He was looking very solemn. 

“Will you let me tell you, my lady, what this always makes 
me think of?” he said. 

“What in particular do you mean?” returned Clementina 
coldly. 

«This smell of new-sawn wood that fills the air, my lady.” 

She bowed her head. 

“It makes me think of Jesus in his father’s workshop,” said 
Malcolm “—how he must have smelled the same sweet scent of 
the trees of the world broken for the uses of men, that is now so 
sweet tome. Oh, my lady! it makes the earth very holy and 
very lovely to think that as we are in the world, so was he in the 
world. Oh, my lady! think :—if God should be so nearly one 
with us that it was nothing strange to him thus to visit his 
people! that we are not the offspring of the soulless tyranny of 
law that knows not even its own self, but the children of an un- 
fathomable wonder, of which science gathers only the foambells 
on the shore—children in the house of a living Father, so en- 
tirely our Father that he cares even to death that we should 
understand and love him!” 

He reined Kelpie back, and as she passed on, his eyes caught 
a glimmer of emotion in Clementina’s. tic fell behind, and “all 
that day did not come near her again. 

Florimel asked her what he had been saying, and she com- 
pelled herself to repeat a part of it. 

“He is always saying such odd out-of-the-way things!” remarked 


Florimel. ‘I used sometimes, like you, to fancy him a little » 


astray, but I soon found I was wrong. I wish you could have 
heard him tell a story he once told my father and me. It was one 
of the wildest you ever heard. I can’t tell to this day whether 
he believed it himself or not. He told it quite as if he did.” 

“Could you not make him tell it again, as we ride along? It 
would shorten the way.” 

“Do you want the way shortened ?—I don’t. But indeed it 
would not do to tell itso. It ought to be heard just where I 


‘ab eed 
* al 
; 


Wt tad Al me ty Ere 2 ae Pee ere Se ee }eaaee } fas ao ae 7h ed 
oy Det te ae ras ink vel Ree Ty t 
% ; 


a6 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


heard it—at the foot of the ruined castle where the dreadful 
things in it took place. You must come and see me at Lossie 
House in the autumn, and then he shall tell it you. Besides, it 
ought to be told in Scotch, and there you will soon learn enough 
to follow it : half the charm depends on that.” 

Although Malcolm did not again approach Clementina that 
day, he watched almost her every motion as she rode. Her 
lithe graceful back and shoulders—for she was a rebel against 
the fashion of the day in dress as well as in morals, and, beliey- 
ing in the natural stay of the muscles, had found them responsive 
to her trust—the noble poise of her head, and the motions of her 
arms, easy yet decided, were ever present to him, though some- 
times he could hardly have told whether his sight or his mind— 
now in the radiance of the sun, now in the shadow of the wood, 
now against the green of the meadow, now against the blue of 
the sky, and now in the faint moonlight, through which he fol- 
lowed, as a ghost in the realms of Hades might follow the ever 
flitting phantom of his love. Day glided after day. Adventure 
came not near them. Soft and lovely as a dream the morning 
dawned, the noon flowed past, the evening came and the death 
that followed was yet sweeter than the life that had gone before. 
Through it all, day-dream and nightly trance, radiant air and 
moony mist, before him glode the shape of Clementina, its every 
motion a charm. After that shape he could have been content, 
oh, how content! to ride on and on through the ever unfolding 
vistas of an eternal succession. Occasionally his mistress would 
call him to her, and then he would have one glance of the day- 
side of the wondrous world he had been following. Somewhere 
within it must be the word of the living One. Little he thought 
that all the time she was thinking more of him who had spoken 
that word in her hearing. ‘That he was the object of her thoughts 
not a suspicion crossed the mind of the simple youth. How 
could he imagine a lady like her taking a fancy to what, for all 
his marquisate, he was still in his own eyes, a raw young fisher- 
man, only just learning how to behave himself decently! No 
doubt, ever since she began to listen to reason, the idea of her 
had been spreading like a sweet odour in his heart, but not 


because she had listened to Azm. The very fulness of his ad- 


miration had made him wrathful with the intellectual dishonesty, 


for in her it could not be stupidity, that quenched his worship, 


and the first dawning sign of a reasonable soul drew him to her 
feet, where, like Pygmalion before his statue, he could have 
poured out his heart in thanks, that she consented to be a 
woman. But even the intellectual phantom, nay, even the very 


bere SF rn ere eee. era Sl ke ee BN el a ul Sie ee i 2 PST... ae ae et 
ete eee SUPP A er. Sete ay yee ee ee Be to ie a 
Ua F ‘ Seating ‘ 
are 4 = Ly a, arn ‘ ‘ . 


Ref 


ar and 


’ ae seh ket =< v eS SMF 


THE RIDE HOME. 207 


phrase of being in love with her, had never risen upon the 
dimmest verge of his consciousness—and that although her being 
had now become to him of all but absorbing interest. I say 
all but, because Malcolm knew something of One whose idea she 
was, who had uttered her from the immortal depths of his 
imagination. ‘The man to whom no window into the treasures 
of the Godhead has yet been opened, may well scoff at the 
notion of such a love, for he has this advantage, that, while one 
like Malcolm can never cease to love, he, gifted being, can love 
to-day and forget to-morrow—or next year—where is the differ- 
ence? Malcolm’s main thought was—what a grand thing it 
would be to rouse a woman like Clementina to lift her head into 
the 


regions mild of calm and serene air, 
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot 
Which men call Earth, 


If anyone think that love has no right to talk religion, I answer 
for Malcolm at least, asking, Whereof shall a man speak, if not 
out of the abundance of his heart? ‘That man knows little either 
of love or of religion who imagines they ought to be kept 
apart. Of what sort, I ask, is either, if unfit to approach the 
other? Has God decreed, created a love that must separate from 
himself? Is Love then divided? Or shall not love to the heart 
created, lift up the heart to the Heart creating? Alas for the 
love that is not treasured in heaven! for the moth and the rust 
will devour it. Ah, these pitiful old moth-eaten loves! 

All the journey then Malcolm was thinking how to urge the 
beautiful lady into finding for herself whether she had a father in 
heaven or not. A pupil of Mr Graham, he placed little value in 
argument that ran in any groove but that of persuasion, or any 
value in persuasion that had any end but action. 

On the second day of the journey, he rode up to his mistress, 
and told her, taking care that Lady Clementina should hear, that 
Mr Graham was now preaching in London, adding that for his 
part he had never before heard anything fit to call preaching. 
Florimel did not show much interest, but asked where, and Mal- 
colm fancied he could see Lady Clementina make a mental note 
of the place. 

“Tf only,” he thought, “‘she would let the power of that man’s 
faith have a chance of influencing her, all would be well.” 

The ladies talked a good deal, but Florimel was not in earnest 
about anything, and for Clementina to have turned the conversa- 
tion upon those possibilities, dim-dawning through the chaos of 
her world, which had begun to interest her, would have been 


208 THE MARQUIS OF- LOSSTE. 


absurd—especially since such was her confusion and uncertainty, 
that she could not tell whether they were clouds or mountains, — 
shadows or continents. Besides, why give a child sovereigns to 
play with when counters or dominoes would do as well? Clemen: 
tina’s thoughts could not have passed into Florimel, and become 
her thoughts. Their hearts, their natures must come nearer first. 
Advise Florimel to disregard rank, and marry the man she loved! 
As well counsel the child to give away the cake he would cry for 
with intensified selfishness the moment he had parted with it! 
Still, there was that in her feeling for Malcolm which rendered 
her doubtful in Florimel’s presence. 

Between the grooms little passed. Griffith’s contempt for 
Malcolm found its least offensive expression in silence, its most 
offensive in the shape of his countenance. He could not make 
him the simplest reply without a sneer. Malcolm was driven to 
keep mostly behind. If by any chance he got in front of his 
fellow-groom, Griffith would instantly cross his direction and ride 
between him and the ladies. His look seemed to say he had to 
protect them. 


CHAPTER OXLVE 
PORTLAND PLACE. 


TuE latter part of the journey was not so pleasant: it rained. It 
was not cold, however, and the ladies did not mind it much. It 
accorded with Clementina’s mood; and as to Florimel, but for 
the thought of meeting Caley, her fine spirits would have laughed 
the weather to scorn. Malcolm was merry. His spirits always 
rose at the appearance of bad weather, as indeed with every show 
of misfortune a response antagonistic invariably awoke in him, 
On the present occasion he had even to repress the constantly 
recurring impulse to break out in song. His bosom’s lord sat 
lightly in his throne. Griffith was the only miserable one of the 
party. He was tired, and did not relish the thought of the work 
to be done before getting home. They entered London in a wet 
fog, streaked with rain, and dyed with smoke. Florimel went 
with Clementina for the night, and Malcolm carried a note from 
her to Lady Bellair, after which, having made Kelpie comfortable, 
ne went to his lodgings. 

When he entered the curiosity-shop, the woman received him 


PORTLAND PLACE. 209 


with evident surprise, and when he would have passed through to 
the stair, stopped him with the unwelcome information that, find- 
ing he did not return, and knowing nothing about himself. or his 
occupation, she had, as soon as the week for which he had paid 
in advance was out, let the room to an old lady from the country. 

“It is no great matter to me,” said Malcolm, thoughtful. over 
the woman’s want of confidence in him, for he had rather liked 
her, “‘ only I am sorry you could not trust me a little.” 

“Tt’s all you know, young man,” she returned. ‘“‘ People as 
lives in London must take care of theirselves—not wait for other 
people to doit. They’d soon find theirselves nowheres in par- 
ticlar. I’ve took care on your things, an’ laid ’em all together, 
an’ the sooner you find another place for ’em the better, for they 
do take up a deal o’ room.” 

His-personal property was not so bulky, however, but that in 
ten minutes he had it all in his carpet-bag and a paper parcel, 
carrying which he re-entered the shop. 

“Would you oblige me by allowing these to lie here till I come 
for them?” he said. 

The woman was silent for a moment. 

“Td rather see the last on ’em,” she answered. “To tell the 
truth, I don't like the look on’em. You acts a part, young man. 
I’m on the square myself. But you'll find plenty to take you in. 
—No, I can’t doit. Take ’em with you.” 

Malcolm turned from her, and with his bag in one hand and 
the parcel under the other arm, stepped from the shop into the 
dreary night. ‘There he stood in the drizzle. It was a by-street 
into which gas had not yet penetrated, and the oil lamps shone 
red and dull through the fog. He concluded to leave the things 
with Merton, while he went to find a lodging. 

Merton was a decent sort of fellow—vo¢ in his master’s con- 
fidence, and Malcolm found him quite as sympathetic as the 
small occasion demanded. 

“Tt ain't no sort o’ night,” he said, “to go lookin’ for a bed. 
Let’s go an’ speak to my old woman: she’s a oner at contrivin’.” 

He lived over the stable, and they had but to go up the stair. 
Mrs Merton sat by the fire. A cradle with a baby was in front 
of it. On the other side sat Caley, in. suppressed exultation, for 
here came what she had been waiting for—the first fruits of 
certain arrangements between her and Mrs Catanach. She 
greeted Malcolm distantly, but neither disdainfully nor spitefully. 

“I trust you’ve brought me back my lady, MacPhail,” she 
said ; then added, thawing into something like jocularity, ‘I 
shouldn’t have looked to you to go running away with her.” 

O 


210 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


“T left my lady at Lady Clementina Thornicroft's an hour 


ago,” answered Malcolm. 

‘Oh, of course! Lady Clem’s everything now.” 

“‘T believe my lady’s not coming home till to-morrow,” said 
Malcolm. 

“All the better for us,” returned Caley. ‘‘ Her room ain't 
ready for her.—But I didn’t know you lodged with Mrs Merton, 
MacPhail,” she said, with a look at the luggage he had placed on 
the floor. 

“ Lawks, miss!” cried the good woman, “wherever should we 
put him up, as has but the next room?” 

“You'll have to find that out, mother,” said Merton. “Sure 
you've got enough to shake down for him! With a truss of straw 
to help, you'll manage it somehow—eh, old lady?—I’ll be bound !” 
_ And with that he told Malcolm’s condition. 

“Well, I suppose we must manage it somehow,” answered his 
wife, “ but I’m afraid we can’t make him over-comfortable. 2! 

“T don’t see but we cou/d take him in at the house,” said Caley, 
reflectively. ‘There is a small room empty in the garret, I know. 
It ain’t much more than a closet, to be sure, but if he could put 
up with it for a night or two, just till he found a better, I would 
run across and see what they say.” 

Malcolm wondered at the change in her, but could not hesitate. 
The least chance of getting settled in the house was a thing not 
to be thrown away. He thanked her heartily. She rose and 
went, and they sat and talked till her return. She had been 
delayed, she said, by the housekeeper; ‘the cross old patch” had 
objected to taking i in anyone from the stables. 


“T’m sure,” she went on, “there ain’t the ghost of a reason | 


why you shouldn’t have the room, except that it ain’t good 
enough, Nobody eise wants it, or is likely to. But it’s all right 
now, and if youll come across in about an hour, you'll find it 
ready for you. One of the girls in the kitchen—I forget her 
name— offered to make it tidy for you. Only take care—I give 
you warning: she’s a great admirer of Mr MacPhail.” 

Therewith she took her departure, and at the appointed time 
Malcolm followed her. ‘The door was opened to him by one of 
the maids whom he knew by sight, and in her guidance he soon 
found himself in that part of a house he liked best—im mediately 
under the roof. ‘The room was indeed little more than a closet 
in the slope of the roof, with only a sky-light. But just outside 
the door was a storm- window, from which, over the top of a lower 
ranze of houses, he had a glimpse of the mews-yard. The place 
smeit rather badly of mice, while, as the sky-light was immediately 


PORTLAND PLACE. 21) 


above his bed, and he had no fancy for drenching that with an 
infusion of soot, he could not open it. These, however, were the 
sole fau!ts he had to find with the place. Everything looked nice 
and clean, and his education had not tended to fastidiousness. ~ 
He took a book from his bag, and read a guod while ; then went 
to bed, and fell fast asleep. 

In the morning he woke early, as was his habit, sprang at once 
on the floor, dressed, and went quietly down. The household 
was yet motionless. He had begun to descend the last stair, 
when all at once he turned deadly sick, and had to sit down, 
grasping the balusters. In a few minutes he recovered, and made 
the best speed he could to the stable, where Kelpie was now be- 
ginning to demand her breakfast. 

But Malcolm had never in his life before felt sick, and it seemed 
awful to him. Something that had appeared his own, a portion 
—hardly a portion, rather an essential element of himself, had 
suddenly deserted him, left him a prey to the inroad of something 
that was not of himself, bringing with it faintness of heart, fear 
and dismay. He found himself for the first time in his life 
trembling ; and it was to him a thing as appalling as strange. 
While he sat on the stair he could not think; but as he walked 
to the mews he said to himself: 

“ Am I then the slave of something that is not myself—some- — 
thing to which my fancied freedom and strength are a mockery? 
Was my courage, my peace, all the time dependent on something 
not me, which could be separated from me, and -but a moment 
ago was separated from me, and left me as helplessly dismayed 
as the veriest coward in creation? I wonder what Alexander 
would have thought if, as he swung himself on Bucephalus, he 
had been taken as I was on the stair.” 

Afterwards, talking the thing over with Mr Graham, he said: 

“T saw that I had no hand in my own courage. If I had any 
courage, it was simply that I was born with it. If it left me, I 
could not help it: I could neither prevent nor recall it ; I could only 
wait until it returned. Why, then, I asked myself, should I feel 
ashamed that, for five minutes, as I sat on the stair, Kelpie was a 
terror to me, and I felt as if I dared not go near her? I had 
almost reached the stable before I saw into it a little. Then I 
did see that if I had had nothing to do with my own courage, it 
was quite time I had something to do with it. Ifa man had no 
hand in his own nature, character, being, what could he be better 
than a divine puppet—a happy creature, possibly—a heavenly 
animal, like the grand horses and lions of the book of the Revela- 
tion—-but not one of the gods that the sons of God, the partakers 


ie) oping Sof eat ay iae tint Rea en Ram hee See Lime ED ere iNet ae Doar TS oe alas eis Pes Boe 

Ros ae cee ‘ aaa pe. RS Worn Patan tt pee Sot Sie . AN yi * 

A re oa an ga eee ec e Loe RD PP gd ta NE Sad eee ane hs Me ee 

Tice a a : ta apes Nee Se A SRR ned I RE RG Ree a 
Rs 5 2 rs ‘ Py a we ‘ sipetys 


212 e THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE. 


of the divine nature, are? For this end came the breach in my 
natural courage—that I might repair it from the will and power 
God had given me, that I might have a hand in the making of 
‘my own courage, in the creating of myself. Therefore I must 
see to it.” 

Nor had he to wait for his next lesson, namely, the opportunity 
of doing what he had been taught in the first. For just as he 
reached the stable, where he heard Kelpie clamouring with hoofs 
and teeth, after her usual manner when she judged herself 
neglected, the sickness returned, and with it such a fear of the 
animal he heard thundering and clashing on the other side of the 
door, as amounted to nothing less than horror. She was a man- 
eating horse !—a creature with bloody teeth, brain-spattered 
hoofs, and eyes of hate! A flesh-loving devil had possessed her, 
and was now crying out for her groom that he might devour him. 

He gathered, with agonized effort, every power within him to 
an awful council, and thus he said to himself : 

‘Better a thousand times my brain plastered the stable-wall 
than I should hold them in the head of a dastard. How can 
God look at me with any content if I quail in the face of his four- 
footed creature! Does he not demand of me action according 
to what I £zow, not what I may chance at any moment to feel? 
God is my strength, and I will lay hold of that strength and use 
it, or I have none, and Kelpie may take me and welcome.” 

Therewith the sickness abated so far that he was able to open 
the stable-door; and, having brought them once into the 
presence of their terror, his will arose and lorded it over his 
shrinking quivering nerves, and like slaves they obeyed him. 
Surely the Father of his spirit was most in that will when most that 

will was Malcolm’s own! It is when a man is most a man, that 
the cause of the man, the God of his life, the very Life himself, 


the original life-creating Life, is closest to him, is most within — 


him. The individual, that his individuality may blossom, and not 
soon be “massed into the common clay,” must have the vital 
indwelling of the primary Individuality which is its origin. The 
fire that is the hidden life of the bush will not consume it. 

Malcolm tottered to the corn-bin, staggered up to Kelpie, fell 
up against her hind quarters as they dropped from a great kick, 
but got into the stall beside her. She turned eagerly, darted at 
her food, swallowed it greedily, and was quiet as a lamb while he 
dressed her. 


PORTLOSSIE AND SCAURNOSE. 213 


CHAPTER XLVIL. 
PORTLOSSIE AND SCAURNOSE, 


MEANTIME things were going rather badly at Portlossie and 
Scaurnose ; and the factor was the devil of them. Those who 
had known him longest said he must be /ey, that is doomed, so 
strangely altered: was his behaviour. Others said he took more 
counsel with his bottle than had been his wont, and got no good 
from it. Almost all the fishers found him surly, and upon some 
he broke out in violent rage, while to certain whom he regarded 
as Malcolm’s special friends, he carried himself with cruel 
oppression. The notice to leave at midsummer clouded the 
destiny of Joseph Mair and his family, and every householder in 
the two villages believed that to take them in would be to call 
down the like fate upon himself. But Meg Partan at least was 
not to be intimidated. Her outbursts of temper were but the 
hurricanes of a tropical heart—not much the less true and good 
and steadfast that it was fierce. Let the factor rage as he would, 
Meg was absolute in her determination that, if the cruel sentence 
was carried out, which she hardly expected, her house should be 
the shelter of those who had received her daughter when her 
severity had driven her from her home. ‘That would leave her 
own family and theirs three months to look out for another abode. 
Certain of Blue Peter’s friends ventured a visit of intercession to 
the factor, and were received with composure and treated with 
consideration until their object appeared, when his wrath burst 
forth so wildly that they were glad to escape without having to 
defend their persons: only the day before had he learned with 
certainty from Miss Horn that Malcolm was still in the service 
of the marchioness, and in constant attendance upon her when 
she rode. It almost maddened him. He had for some time 
taken to drinking more toddy after his dinner, and it was fast 


ruining his temper: his wife, who had from the first excited his 


indignation against Malcolm, was now reaping her reward. To 
complete the troubles of the fisher-folk, the harbour at Portlossie 
had, by a severe equinoctial storm, been so filled with sand as to 
be now inaccessible at lower than half tide, nobody as yet having 
made it his business to see it attended to. 

But, in the midst of his anxieties about Florimel and his 
interest in Clementina, Malcolm had not been forgetting them. 
As soon as he was a little settled in London, he had written to 
Mr Soutar, and he to architects and’ contractors, on the subject 


hese} e.) 2 YSTHE MARQUIS OF LOSSI2. * 3) ae ae 
ofa harbour at “caurnose. But there were difficulties, and the — aig 
matter had been making but slow progress. Malcolm, however, — ag 
had insisted, and in consequence of his determination to have _ ‘ 
the possibilities of the thing thoroughly understood, three men ae 
appeared one morning on the rocks at the bottom of the cliffon 
the west side of the Nose. The children of the village discovered _ 
them, and carried the news ; whereupon, the men being all out 
in the bay, the women left their work and went to see what the 
strangers were about. ‘The moment they were satisfied that they 
could make nothing of their proceedings, they naturally became — 
suspicious. ‘To whom the fancy first occurred, nobody ever knew, k 
but such was the unhealthiness of the moral atmosphere of the place, 3 
caused by the injustice and severity of Mr Crathie, that, once sug- 
gested, it was universally received that they were sent by the factor 
—and that for a purpose only too consistent with the treatment  __ 
Scaurnose, they said, had invariably received ever since first it was _ 
the dwelling of fishers! Had not their fathers told them how 
unwelcome they were to the lords of the land? And what rents 
had they not to pay! and how poor was the shelter for which 
they paid so much—without a foot of land to grow a potato in! 
To crown all, the factor was at length about to drive them ina _ 
body from the place—Blue Peter first, one of the best as wellas 
the most considerable men among them! His notice to quit was py 
but the beginning of a clearance. It was easy to see what those ee. 
villains were about—on that precious rock, their only friend, the 
one that did its best to give them the sole shadow of harbourage 
they had, cutting off the wind from the north-east a little,and 
breaking the eddy round the point of the Nose! What could a 
they be about but marking the spots where to bore the holes for — a 
the blasting-powder that should scatter it to the winds, andlet  _ 
death and destruction, and the wild sea howling in upon Scaur- _ <a 
nose, that the cormorant and the bittern might possess it, the 
owl and the raven dwell in it? But it would be seen what their ce 
husbands and fathers would say to it when theycame home! In 
the meantime they must themselves do what they could. What 
were they men’s wives for, if not to act for their husbands when 
they happened to be away? ——- 
_ The result was a shower of stones upon the unsuspecting 
surveyors, who forthwith fled, and carried the report of their 
reception to Mr Soutar at Duff Harbour. He wrote to Mr _ 
Crathie, who till then had heard nothing of the business; and __ 
the news increased both his discontent with his superiors, and 
his wrath with those whom he had come to regard as his 
rebellious subjects. The stiffnecked people of the Bible was to 


PORTLOSSIE AND SCAURNOSE. 215 


him always now, as often he heard the words, the people of 
Scaurnose and the Seaton of Portlossie. And having at length © 
committed this overt outrage, would he not be justified by all in 
taking more active measures against them ? 

When the fishermen came home and heard how their women 
had conducted themselves, they accepted their conjectures, and 
approved of their defence of the settlement. It was well for the — 
land-loupers, they said, that they had only the women to deal with. . 

Blue Peter did not so soon hear of the affair as the rest, for his 
Annie had not been one of the assailants. But when the hurried 
retreat of the surveyors was described to him in somewhat graphic 
language by one of those concerned in causing it, he struck his 
clenched fist in the palm of his other hand, and cried, 

“Weel saired! ‘There! that’s what comes 0’ yer new 

He had all but broken his promise, as he had already broken 
his faith to Malcolm, when his wife laid her hand on his mouth 
and stopped the issuing word. He started with sudden convic: 
tion and stood for a moment in absolute terror at sight of the 
precipice down which he had been on the point of falling, then 
straightway excusing himself to his conscience on the ground of 
non-intent, was instantly angrier with Malcolm than before. He 
could not reflect that the disregarded cause of the threatened sin 
was the greater sin of the two. ‘The breach of that charity which 
thinketh no evil may be a graver fault than a hasty breach of promise. 

Peter had not been improving since his return from London. 
He found less satisfaction in his ve/¢gious exercises; was not 
unfrequently clouded in temper, occasionally even to sullenness ; 
referred things oftener than formerly to the vileness of the 
human nature, but was far less willing than before to allow that 
he might himself be wrong ; while somehow the Bible had no 
more the same plenitude of relation to the wants of his being, 
and he rose from the reading of it unrefreshed. Men asked 
each other what had come to Blue Peter, but no one could 
answer the question. For himself, he attributed the change, 
which he could not but recognise, although he did not under- 
stand it, to the withdrawing of the spirit of God, in displeasure 
that he had not merely allowed himself to be inveigled into a 
playhouse, but, far worse, had enjoyed the wickedness he saw 
there. When his wife reasoned that God knew he had gone in 
ignorance, trusting his friend, he cried, 

“What ’s that to him wha judges richteous judgment ? What’s 
-@ oor puir meeserable excuzes 1’ the een ’at can see throu’ the 
wa’s o’ the hert! Ignorance is no innocence.” 

Thus he lied for God, pleading his cause on the principles of 


= a0 


. 


pi But the eye of Hie oe was oe and her Bede Fal 


~ friend in his heart, half knew it, but would not own it. Fearing — 


Annie to herself, “ Puir fallow! gien only Ma’colm wad come o0 


f actin. ~- Lord'bliss us a’! markises 1 is men !” 


_ light; therefore to her it was plain that neither the theatre nor “ 
- his conscience concerning it was the cause of the change: it had “ 
to do with his feelings towards Malcolm. He wronged his 


to search himsélf, he took refuge i in resentment, and to support — By 
his hard judgment, put false and “cruel interpretations on whatever 
befell. So that, with love and anger and wrong acknowledged, i 
his heart was full of bitterness. he * 

“Tt’s a’ the drumblet (muddied, troubled) \uve 0’ im!” said 


hame, an’ lat hun ken he’s no the villain he taks him for. PH — 
no believe mysel’ vat the laad I kissed like my ain mither’s son 
afore he gaed awa’ wad turn like that upo’’s ’maist the meenute a Ns 


he was oot o’ sicht, an’ a’ for a feow words aboot a fulish plays 


“We'll see, Peter, my man,” she said, when the neighbour — 
took her leave, ‘‘ whether the wife, though she hasna’ been ‘nue 4 
the ill place, an’ that’s surely Lon’on, canna tell the true frae the — 
fause full better nor her man, ’at kens sae muckle mair nor she ~ 
wants to ken? Lat sit an’ lat see.” Bee 
Blue Peter made no reply; but perhaps the deepest depth i in. 
his fall was that he feared his wife might be right, and he have 
one day to stand ashamed before both her and his friend.. But — 
there are marvellous differences in the gua/ity of the sins of a 
different men, and a noble nature like Peter's would have to - 
sink far indeed to be beyond redemption. Still there was one <4 
element mingling with his wrongness whose very triviality in- — 
creased the difficulty of long-delaying repentance: he had been — 
not a little proud at finding himself the friend of a marquis. 
From the first they had been. friends, when the one was a youth _ 
and the other a child, and had been out. together in many a — 
stormy and dangerous sea. More than once or twice, driven — 
from the churlish ocean to the scarce less inhospitable shore, 
they had lain all night in each other’s arms to keep the life — 
awake within their frozen garments. And now this mar a 
spoke English to him! It rankled ! - ae 
All the time Blue Peter was careful to say nothing to injure — — 
- Malcolm in the éyes of his former comrades. His manner wher 
his name was mentioned, however, he could not honestly school — 
to the conveyance of the impression that things were as they had _ 
been betwixt them. Folk marked the difference, and it went to — 
swell the general feeling that Malcolm had done ill to forsake a | 
per ENE life for one upon which all fishermen must look down 


Ee Ge ae eg ee 
Lay ee ee ee 
PORTLOSSIE AND SCAURNOSE. — 217 


with contempt. Some in the Seaton went so far in their enmity - 
as even to hint at an explanation of his conduct in the truth of 
the discarded scandal which had laid Lizzy’s child at his door. 

But amongst them was one who, having wronged him thus, 
and been convinced of her error, was now so fiercely his partisan 
as to be ready to wrong the whole town in his defence: that was 
Meg Partan, properly Mistress Findlay, Lizzy’s mother. Although 
the daughter had never caqnfessed, the mother had yet arrived at 
the right conclusion concerning the father of her child—how, 
' she could hardly herself have told, for the conviction had grown 
by accretion ; a sign here and a sign there, impalpable save to 
maternal sense, had led her to the truth; and now, if anyone 
had a word to say against Malcolm, he had better not say it in 
the hearing of the Partaness. 

One day Blue Peter was walking home from the upper town of 
Portlossie, not with the lazy gait of the fisherman off work, 
poised backwards, with hands in trouser-pocket, but stooping 
care-laden with listless-swinging arms. Thus Meg Partan met © 
him—and of course attributed his dejection to the factor. 

“ Deil ha’e im for an upsettin’ rascal ’at hasna pride eneuch 
to haud him ohn lickit the gentry’s shune! The man maun 
be fey! I houp he may, an’ I wuss I saw the beerial o’ ’im 
makin’ for the kirkyaird. It’s nae ill to wuss weel to a’ body ’at 
wad be left! His nose is turnt twise the colour? the last twa 
month. He'll be drinkin’ byous. Gien only Ma’colm MacPhail 
had been at hame to haud him in order!” 

Peter said nothing, and his silence, to one who spake out 
whatever came, seemed fuller of restraints and meanings than it 
was. She challenged it at once. : 

“Noo, what mean ye by sayin’ naething, Peter? Guid kens 
‘its the warst thing man or woman can say 0’ onybody to haud | 
their tongue. It’s a thing I never was blamed wi mysel’, an’ I 
wadna du’t.” 

“‘'That’s verra true,” said Peter. 

“The mair weicht’s intill’t whan I lay’t to the door o’' | 
anither,” persisted Meg. “Peter, gien ye ha’e onything again’ 
my freen’ Ma’colm MacPhail, oot wi ’t like a man, an’ no 
playac’ the gunpoother-plot ower again. II] wull’s the warst . 
poother ye can lay 1 the boddom o’ ony man’s boat. But say 
’at ye like, Is’ uphaud Ma’colm again’ the haill poustie o’ ye. 
Gien he was but here! I say t again, honest laad !” 

But she could not rouse Peter to utterance, and losing what 
little temper she had, she rated him soundly, and sent him home 
saying with the prophet Jonah, ‘‘ Do I not well to be angry?” 


THE MARQUIS: OF LO TE 


for that also he mated to Malcolm’ S account. Nor was his home a 

any more a harbour for his riven boat, seeing his wife only longed 
_ for the return of him with whom his spirit chode: she regarded — iy 
_ him as an exiled king, one day to reappear, and justify himself 
pocin the eyes of all, friends and enemies. ae 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 
TORIURE. 


_ TuHoucH unable to eat any breakfast, Malcolm persuaded him- 
self that he felt nearly as well as usual when he went to receive. am 
his mistress’s orders. Florimel had had enough of horseback—for — % 
several days to come indeed—and would not ride. Sohesaddled 


Kelpie, and rode to Chelsea to look after his boat. To get rid | 
of the mare, he rang the stable-bell at Mr Lenorme’s, and the © 
_ gardener let him in. As he was putting her up, the man told~ 
him that the housekeeper had heard from his master. Malcolm — 
went to the house to learn what he might, and found to his 
surprise that, if he had gone on the continent, he was there no | 
longer, for the letter, which contained only directions concerning — 
_ some of his pictures, was dated from Newcastle, and bore the | 
Durham postmark of a week ago. Malcolm remembered that — 
_ he had heard Lenorme speak of Durham cathedral, and in the — 
hope that he might be spending some time there, begged the ! 
housekeeper to allow him to go to the study to write to her 
_ master. When he entered, however, he saw something that made 
_ him change his plan, and, ‘having written, instead of sending the a 
_ letter, as he had intended, inclosed to the postmaster at Durham, 
he left it upon an easel. It contained merely an earnest entreaty 
_ to be made and kept acquainted with his movements, that he 
_ might at once let him know if anything should occur that he ; 
- ought to be informed concerning. 
_ He found all on board the yacht in ship-shape, only Dae 
oe was absent. ‘Travers explained that he sent him on shore for a 
_ few hours every day. He was a sharp boy, he said, and the ~ 
more he saw, the more useful he would be, and as he never gave 4 
him any money, there was no risk of his mistaking his hours. =) & = ~~ 
“ When do you expect him?” asked Malcolm. i 
‘ At four o'clock,” answered Travers. 
“Tt is four now,” said Malcolm. 


$ ‘. st ee x 4 : 
‘ Be ° rs a 


TORTURE. : 219 


A shrill whistle came from the Chelsea shore. 

“ And there’s Davy,” said Travers. 

Malcolm got into the dinghy and rowed ashore. 

4 Davy,” he said, “I don’t want you to be all day on board, 
but I can’t have you be longer away than an hour at a time,” 

“ Ay, ay, sir,” said Davy. 

“ Now attend to me.” 

aes AY. Sit.” 

“Do you know Lady Lossie’s house? ” 

** No, sir; but I ken hersel’.” 

“ How is that?” 

“T ha’e seen her mair nor twa or three times, ridin’ wi’ yersel’, 
to yon hoose yon’er.’ 

“ Would you know her again?” 

“ Ay wad I—fine that. What for no, sir.” 

“It’s a good way to see a lady across the Thames and know 
her again.’ 

“Ow! but I tuik the spy-glaiss till her,” answered Davy, 
reddening. 

** You are sure of her, then?” 

“Tl am that, sir.” 

“Then come with me, and I will show you where she lives, 
I will not ride faster than you can run. But mind you don't 
look as if you belonged to me.’ 

“Na, na, sir. There’s fowk takin’ nottice.” 

‘What do you mean by that ?” 

“'There’s a wee laddie been efter mysel’ twise or thrice.” 

“ Did you do anything ?” 

“He wasna big eneuch to lick, sae I jist got him the last time 
an’ pu’d his niz, an’ I dinna think he’ll come efter me again.” 

To see what the boy could do, Malcolm let Kelpie go at a 
good trot: but Davy kept up without effort, now shooting ahead, 
now falling behind, now stopping to look in at a window, and 
now to cast a glance at a game of pitch and toss. No mere 
passer-by could have suspected that the sailor-boy belonged to 
the horseman. He dropped him not far from Portland Place, © 
telling him to go and look at the number, but not stare at the 
house. 

All the time he had had no return of the sickness, but, 
although thus actively occupied, had felt greatly depressed. One 
main cause of this was, however, that he had not found his 
religion stand him in such stead as he might have hoped. It 
was not yet what it must be to prove its reality. And now his 
eyes were afresh opened to see that in his nature and thoughts 


=n Ft ag he pt eee Nee Soka dC. 
oe ose oe Peg Pee b Pareagen (phe tS: 
ae > Eaeo 


220 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


{ 


lay large spaces wherein God ruled not supreme—desert places, | 


where who could tell what might appear? For in such regions 
wild beasts range, evil herbs flourish, and demons go about. If 
in very deed he lived and moved and had his being in God, then 
assuredly there ought not to be one cranny in his nature, one 
realm of his consciousness, one well-spring of thought, where the 
will of God was a stranger. If all were as it should be, then 
surely there would be no moment, looking back on which he 
could not at least say, 


Vet like some sweet beguiling melody, 

So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 

Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, 
Yea, with my life and life’s own secret joy. 


“In that agony o’ sickness, as I sat upo’ the stair,” he said to 
himself, for still in his own thoughts he spoke his native tongue, 
‘‘whaur was my God in a my thouchts? I did cry till ’im, 
I min’ weel, but it was my reelin’ brain an’ no my trustin’ hert 
‘at cried. Aih me! I doobt gien the Lord war to come to me 
noo, he wadna fin’ muckle faith 7’ my pairt o’ the yerth. Aih! I 
wad like to lat him see something like lippenin’! I wad fain 
trust him till his hert’s content. But I doobt it’s only speeritual 
ambeetion, or better wad hae come o’ ’t by this time. Gien that 
sickness come again, I maun see, noo ’at I’m forewarned o’ my 
ain wakeness, what I can du. It maun be something better nor 
last time, or I'll tine hert a’thegither. Weel, maybe I need to be 
heumblet. The Lord help me !” 

In the evening he went to the schoolmaster, and gave him a 
pretty full account of where he had been and what had taken 
place since last he saw him, dwelling chiefly on his endeavours 
with Lady Clementina. 

From Mr Graham’s lodging to the north-eastern gate of the 
Regent’s Park, the nearest way led through a certain passage, 
which, although a thoroughfare to persons on foot, was little 
known. Malcolm had early discovered it, and always used it. 
Part of this short cut was the yard and back-premises of a small 
public-house. It was between eleven and twelve as he entered 
it for the second time that night. Sunk in thought and suspect- 
ing no evil, he was struck down from behind, and lost his con- 
sciousness. When he came to himself he was lying in the public- 
house, with his head bound up, and a doctor standing over him, 
who asked him if he had been robbed. He searched his 
pockets, and found that his old watch was gone, but his money 
left. One of the men standing about said he would see him 


ct 
“eS 


“TORTURE... 291 


home. He half thought he had seen him before, and did not 
like the look of him, but accepted the offer, hoping to get on the 
track of something thereby. As soon as they entered the com- 
parative solitude of the park he begged his companion, who had 
scarcely spoken all the way, to give him his arm, and leaned 
upon it as if still suffering, but watched him closely. About the 
middle of the park, where not a creature was in sight, he felt him 
begin to fumble in his coat-pocket, and draw something from it. 
But when, unresisted, he snatched away his other arm, Malcolm’s 
fist followed it, and the man fell, nor made any resistance while 
he took from him a short stick, loaded with lead, and his own 
watch, which he found in his waistcoat-pocket. Then the fellow 
rose with apparent difficulty, but the moment he was on his legs, 
ran like a hare, and Malcolm let him run, for he felt unable to 
follow him. 

As soon as he reached home, he went to bed, for his head - 
ached severely; but he slept pretty well, and in the morning 
flattered himself he felt much as usual. But it was as if all the 
night that horribie sickness had been lying in wait on the stair to 
spring upon him, for, the moment he reached the same spot on 
his way down, he almost fainted. It was worse than before. His 
very soul seemed to turn sick. But although his heart died 
within him, somehow, in the confusion of thought and feeling 
occasioned by intense suffering, it seemed while he clung to the 
balusters as if with both hands he were clinging to the skirts of 
God’s garment ; and through the black smoke of his fainting, his 
soul seemed to be struggling up towards the light of his being. 
Presently the horrible sense subsided as before, and again he 
sought to descend the stair and go to Kelpie. But immediately 
the sickness returned, and all he could do after a long and vain 
struggle, was to crawl on hands and knees up the stairs and back © 
to his room. There he crept upon his bed, and was feebly 
committing Kelpie to the care of her maker, when consciousness 
forsook him. 

It returned, heralded by frightful pains all over his body, which” 
by and by subsiding, he sank again to the bottom of the black 
Lethe. 

Meantime Kelpie had got so wildly uproarious that Merton 
tossed her half a truss of hay, which she attacked like an enemy, 
and ran to the house to get somebody to call Malcolm. After 
what seemed endless delay, the door was opened by his admirer, 
the scullery-maid, who, as soon as she heard what was the matter, 
hastened to his room. 


a BrrorE he again came to himself, Malcolm had a dream, which, 


a he tried. Suddenly he heard a step he knew better than any © 


Ya 


5) be ; 


went. The moment she perceived that he was aware of her pre- 


222 «= THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


Becever tad.’ His surroundings in it were those in which he 
actually lay, and he was ill, but he thought it the one illness he 


_ like any sight-gifted man. He went straight to the wash-stand, » 
_ of waking in his bed, he ‘found himself standing in the middle of 


-and when he came to himself, he knew he was in his right mind. 


~ woman who had admitted him to the house the night of his re- 


oe 


_ “But I did go for the doctor, for all it may be the hanging of 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


THE PHILTRE. 


although very confused, was in parts more vivid than any he had 


had before. His head ached, and he could rest in no position = 


other approaching the door of his chamber: it opened, and his — EY 
grandfather in great agitation entered, not following his hands, o.. 
however, in the fashion usual to blindness, but carrying himself — 


took up the water-bottle, and with a look of mingled wrath and ae 
horror, dashed it on the floor. The same instant a cold shiver - — 
ran through the dreamer, and his dream vanished. But instead 


the floor, his feet wet, the bottle in shivers about them, and, Me 
strangest of all, the neck of the bottle in his hand. He lay e 
down again, grew delirious, and tossed about in the remorseless 
persecution of centuries. But at length his tormentors left him, 


ee 


_ It was evening, and some one was sitting near his bed. By a 
the light of the long-snuffed tallow candle, he saw the glitter of 
two great black eyes watching him, and recognised the young 


turn, and whom he had since met once or twice as ye came and , 


sence, she threw herself on her knees at his bedside, hid her 
face, and began to weep. The sympathy of his nature rendered 
past more sensitive by weakness and suffering, Malcolm laid his 
hand on her head, and sought to comfort her. BS 
“ Don’t be alarmed about me,” he said, ‘I shall soon be all a 
right again.” poe 
_ “T can’t bear it,” she sobbed. “I can’t bear to see you likes a 
that, and all my fault,” z 
~ © Your fault! What can you mean ?” said Maloolint 


me,” she sobbed. ‘ Miss: Caley said I wasn’t to, but I would 
and I did. They can’t say I meant it—can they ? > a 
“ T don’t understand,” said Malcolm, feebly. ? a > 
“The doctor says somebody’s been an’ pisoned you,” said are 


oe ean 
eae 


THE PHILTRE. : ay | gags 


the girl, with a cry that sounded like a mingled sob and howl ; 
“an’ he’s been a-pokin’ of all sorts of things down your poor 
throat.” 

And again she cried aloud in her agony. 

“Well, never mind; I’m not dead you see; and I'll take 
better care of myself after this. Thank you for being so good to 
me ; you've saved my life.” 

“Ah! you won’t be so kind to me when you know all, Mr 
MacPhail,” sobbed the girl. ‘It was myself gave you the horrid 
stuff, but God knows I didn’t mean to do you no harm no more 
than your own mother.” 

“What made you do it then?” asked Malcolm: 

“The witch-woman told me to. She said that—that—if I 
gave it you—you would—you would 

She buried her face in the bed, and so stifled a fresh howl of 
pain and shame. 

“And it was all lies—lies!” she resumed, lifting her face 
again, which now flashed with rage, ‘ for I know you'll hate me 
worse than ever now.” . 

“ My poor girl, I never hated you,” said Malcolm. : 

“No, but you did as bad: you never looked at me. And now 
you'll hate me out and out. And the doctor says if you die, he’ll 
have it all searched into, and Miss Caley she look at me as if she 
suspect me of a hand in it; and they won’t let alone till they’ve 
got me hanged for it; and it’s all along of love of you; and I 
tell you the truth, Mr MacPhail, and you can do anything with 
me you like—I don’t care—only you won't let them hang me-— 
will you P—Oh, please don’t.” 

She said all this with clasped hands, and the tears streaming 
down her face. 

Malcolm’s impulse was of course to draw her to him and 
comfort her, but something warned him. eon 
“Well, you see I’m not going to die just yet,” he said as 
merrily as he could; “and if I find myself going, I shall take ~— 
care the blame falls on the right person. What was the witch- 
woman like? Sit down on the chair there, and tell me all about her.” 

She obeyed with a sigh, and gave him such a description as he 
could not mistake. He asked where she lived, but the girl had 
never met her anywhere but in the street, she said. 

Questioning her very carefully as to Caley’s behaviour to her, 
Malcolm was convinced that she had a hand in the affair. 
Indeed, she had happily more to do with it than even Mrs 
Catanach knew, for she had traversed her treatment to the 
advantage of Malcolm. The mid-wife had meant the potion to 


_ work slowly, but the lady’s- pene Ree added to the pretend i 
Eestitire a certain ingredient in whose efficacy she had reason to _ 
trust ; and the combination, while it wrought more rapidly, had | 
yet apparently set up a counteraction favourable to the efforts of © 
the struggling vitality which it stung to an agonised resistance. 
But Malcolm’s strength was now exhausted. He turned faint, 
and the girl had the sense to run to the kitchen and get him some 
soup. As he took it, her demeanour and regards made him ae 
fo ANXIOUS, uncomfortable, embarrassed. It is to any true man a ~ 
hateful thing to repel a woman—it is such a reflection upon her. — 
Bea ve told you everything, Mr MacPhail, and it’s gospel truth © 
T've told you,” said the girl, after a long pause.—It was a relief _ 
when first she spoke, but the comfort vanished as she went on, a | 
and with slow, perhaps unconscious movements approached him, a | 
—“J would have died for you, and here that devil of awoman 
has been making me kill you! Oh, howI hate her! Nowyou 
will never love me a bit—not one tiny little bit for ever and 4 
ever!” ee 
There was a tone of despairful entreaty in her words that 

_ touched Malcolm deeply. = 

; ‘J am more indebted to you than I can speak or you imagine,” a 
he said. “You have saved me from my worst enemy. Do not | 
tell any other what you have told me, or let anyone know that pee 
we have talked together. The day will come when I shall be — 
able to show you my gratitude.” 
__ Something in his tone struck her, even through the folds ne 4 
her passion. She looked at him a little amazed, and for a a 4 
moment the tide ebbed. Then came a rush that overmastered — 
_ her. She flung her hands above her head, and cried, 
“That means you will do anything but love me!” oe 
“T cannot love you as you mean, ” said Malcolm. Ad promise Ta 
to be your friend, but more is out of my power.” | ee: 
A fierce light came into the girl’s eyes. But that instant a 
terrible cry, such as Malcolm had never heard, but which he 
knew must be Kelpie’s, rang through the air, followed by the - © 
_ Shouts of men, the tones of fierce execration, and the clashand 
clang of hoofs, a 
_ “Good God!” he exclaimed, and forgetting everything else, e. ¥ 
_ sprang from the bed, and ran to ‘the window outside his door, 
The light of their lanterns dimly showed a confused crowd in— 
the yard of the mews, and amidst the hellish uproar of their 4 
coarse voices he could hear Kelpie plunging and kicking. Again 2 3 
she uttered the same ringing scream. He threw the window open 
_ and cried to her that he was coming, but the noise was far too = 


L 
tes 


BOR TIPLE Se eas! SOO ie ih OE be 
CRS ER een ee, CoS 


<ee 


- ‘ © ” a 
Ps PS a 0 ed a's ie ROR a 2 Sd 


THE DEMONESS AT BAY.  ———s225 


great for his enfeebled voice. Hurriedly he added a garment or 
two to his half-dress, rushed to the stair, passing his new friend, 
who watched anxiously at the head of it, without seeing her, and 
shot from the house. 


CHAPTER L. 
THE DEMONESS AY BAY; 


WHEN he reached the yard of the mews, the uproar had nothing 
abated. But when he cried out to Kelpie, through it all came a 
whinny of appeal, instantly followed by a scream. When he got 
up to the lanterns, he found a group of wrathful men with stable- 
forks surrounding the poor animal, from whom the blood was 
streaming before and behind. Fierce as she was, she dared not 
move, but stood trembling, with the sweat of terror pouring from 
her. Yet her eye showed that not even terror had cowed her. 
She was but biding her time. Her master’s first impulse was to 
scatter the men right and left, but on second thoughts, of which 
he was even then capable, he saw that they might have been 
driven to apparent brutality in defence of their lives, and besides 
he could not tell what Kelpie might do if suddenly released. 
So he caught her by the broken halter, and told them to fall back. 
They did so carefully—it seemed unwillingly. But the mare had 
eyes and ears only for her master. What she had never done 
before, she nosed him over face and shoulders, trembling all the 
time. Suddenly one of her tormentors darted forward, and gave 
her a terrible prod in the off hind quarter. _But he paid dearly 
for it. Ere he could draw back, she lashed out, and shot him 
half across the yard with his knee-joint broken. ‘The whole set 
of them rushed at her. 

‘Leave her alone,” shouted Malcolm, “ or I will take her part. 
Between us we'll do for a dozen of you.” 

‘The devil’s in her,” said one of them. 

‘You'll find more of him in that rascal groaning yonder. You 
had better see to him. He'll never do such a thing again, I fancy. 
Where is Merton?” 

They drew off and went to help their comrade, who lay sense- 
less. 

When Malcolm would have led Kelpie in, she stopped suddenly 
at the stable-door, and started back shuddering, as if the memory 

p 7 


a = she had no idea how ill he was. But he felt all the better for the | 


: % | “of what she had endured there overcame ee ie) fibre of her: r 
trembled. He saw that she must have been pitifully used before — 


and he led her to her stall without difficulty. He wished Lady ~ 


= length she broke her fastenings; they fled, and she rushed out 


was immediately amputated. 


_the same who had taken her there before, to await Kelpie’s- 
arrival at Aberdeen. There he must also find suitable housing 


until, more probably, he should claim her himself. He added 
_preserver. He could not help feeling embarrassed when he saw 


. went. When she returned, he drank the water. 


she broke loose and got out. But she yielded to his coaxing, — 


Clementina herself could have been his witness how she knew her 
friend and trusted him. Had she seen how the poor beeen 
thing rejoiced over him, she could not have doubted that his 
treatment had been in part at least a success. 

Kelpie had many enemies amongst the men of the ~ 
Merton had gone out for the evening, and they had taken the — 
opportunity of getting into her stable and tormenting her. At 


after them. 
They carried the maimed man to the hospital, where his lg 


Malcolm washed and dried his poor animal, handling her =a 
gently as possible, for she was in a sad plight. It was plain he 
must not have her here any longer: worse to her at least was sure 
to follow. He went up, trembling himself now, to Mrs vas : 
She told him she was just running to fetch him when he arrived: — 


excitement, and after he had taken a cup of strong tea, wrote to. 
Mr Soutar to provide men on whom he could depend, if possible 


and attention for her at any expense until further directions, or 


many instructions to be given as to her treatment. 7a 
Until Merton returned he kept watch, then went back to the 
chamber of his torture, which, like Kelpie, he shuddered to enter. 
The cook let him in, and gave him his candle, but hardly had he — 
closed his door when a tap came to it, and there stood Rose, his 


her. 3 gy 
“T see you don’t trust me,” she said. a 
“J do trust you,” he answered. ‘ Will you bring me some. 
water. JI dare not drink anything that has been standing.” 
She looked at him with inquiring eyes, nodded her head, and | 


“There! you see I trust you,” he said witha laugh. “ Bue 
there are people about who for certain reasons want to get rid ¢ of 
me: will you be on my side?” iL) 

“That I will,” she answered eagerly. 4 & . 

“T have not got my plans laid yet; but will yeu meet ir me 

ey 


‘THE DEMONESS AT BAY. 227 


somewhere near this to-morrow night? I shall not be at home, 
perhaps, all day.” 

She stared at him with great eyes, but agreed at once, and they 
appointed time and place. He then bade her good night, and 
the moment she left him lay down on the bed to think. But he 
did not trouble himself yet to unravel the plot against him, or 
determine whether the violence he had suffered had the same 
origin with the poisoning. Nor was the question merely how to 
continue to serve his sister without danger to his life ; for he had 
just learned what rendered it absolutely imperative that she should 
be removed from her present position. Mrs Merton had told 
him that Lady Lossie was about to accompany Lady Bellair and 
Lord Liftore to the continent. That must not be, whatever means 
might be necessary to prevent it. Before he went to sleep things 
had cleared themselves up considerably. 

He woke much better, and rose at his usual hour. Kelpie 
rejoiced him by affording little other sign of the cruelty she had 
suffered than the angry twitching of her skin when hand or brush 
approached a wound. ‘The worst fear was that some few white 
hairs might by and by in consequence fleck her spotless black. 
Having urgently committed her to Merton’s care, he mounted 
Honour, and rode to the Aberdeen wharf. ‘There to his relief, 
time growing precious, he learned that the same smack in which 
Kelpie had come was to sail the next morning for Aberdeen. He 
arranged at once for her passage, and, before he left, saw to every 
contrivance he could think of for her safety and comfort. He 
warned the crew concerning her temper, but at the same time 
prejudiced them in her favour by the argument of a few sovereigns. 
He then rode to the Chelsea Reach, where the Psyche had now 
grown to be a feature of the river in the eyes of the dwellers upon 
its banks. 

At his whistle, Davy tumbled into the dinghy like a round ball 
over the gunwale, and was rowing for the shore ere his whistle 
had ceased ringing in Malcolm’s own ears. He left him with his 
horse, went on board, and gave various directions to Travers ; 
then took Davy with him, and bought many things at different 
shops, which he ordered to be delivered to Davy when he should 
call for them. Having next instructed him to get everything on 
board as soon as possible, and appointed to meet him at the 
same place and hour he had arranged with Rose, he went home. 

A little anxious lest Florimel might have wanted hin, for it 
was now past the hour at which he usually waited her orders, he 
learned to his relief that she was gone shopping with Lady Bellair, 
upon which he set out for the hospital, whither they had carried 


ae, & 
tm x 

uke. : 
Se eee 
re “~ 
~~ 


led by ee but urged a a suspicion also which he desired 
to verify or remove. On the plea of identification, he was per- 4 
mitted to look at him for a moment, but not to speak to him. — 
It was enough: he recognised him at once as the same whose 
second attack he had foiled in the Regent’s Park. He remem- 
bered having seen him about the stable, but had never spoken to 
him. Giving the nurse a sovereign, and Mr Soutar’s address, he 
requested her to let that gentleman know as soon as it was” a s 
possible to conjecture the time of his leaving. Returning, he eo 
gave Merton a hint to keep his eye on the man, and some money _ 
to spend for him as he judged best. He then took Kelpie forse sae 
an airing. To his surprise she fatigued him so much that when — by 
he had put her up again he was g lad to go and liedown, 
When it came near the time for meeting Rose and Davy, he 
got his things together in the old carpet-bag, which held all he — 
cared for, and carried it with him. As he drew near the spot, he : 
saw Davy already there, keeping a sharp look out on all sides. 
Presently Rose appeared, but drew back when she saw Davy. 
Malcolm went to her. z 
“Rose,” he said, “I am going to ask you to do mea great 
favour. But you cannot except you are able to trust me.” 
“I do trust you,” she answered. 
“All I can tell you now is that you must go with that hoya 
to-morrow. Before night you shall know more. Will you do it?” — 
“T will,” answered Rose. “I dearly love a secret.” P 
S I promise to let you understand it, if you do just as 1 tell 
ou.’ - 
“T will.” oe 
“Be at this very spot then to-morrow morning, at six o ‘clockiam ee: 
Come here, Davy. This boy will take you where I shall tell 
him.” 
She looked from the one to the other. ar 
**T’ll risk it,” she said. ‘ia 
“Put on a clean frock, and take a change of linen with you 
and your dressing things. No harm shall come to you.” 
“Tm not afraid,’ she answered, but looked as if she would 


oe Of course you will not tell anyone.” | a : 
“TI will not, Mr MacPhail.” “ag 
“You are trusting me a great deal, Rose; but I am trusting 
you too—more than you think.—Be off with that bag, Davy, and 
be here at six to-morrow morning, to carry this young roma 
fol her. P : 


sty 
re 


. 4 e 
: = rd ; Cr. ay te oY eae 8 he Ro aie aan 
PLO e. ak ea? ome Ss ae gs Bl el cane 


LHE PSYCHE, 229 

Davy vanished. 

“Now, Rose,” continued Malcolm, “you had better go and 
make your preparations.” 

‘Ts that all, sir?” she said. 

“Yes. I shall see you to-morrow. Be brave.” 

Something in Malcolm’s tone and manner seemed to work 
strangely on the girl. She gazed up at him half fnghtened, but 
submissive, and went at once, looking, however, sadly dis- 
appointed. 

Malcolm had intended to go and tell Mr Graham of his plans 
that same night, but he found himself too much exhausted to 
walk to Camden Town. And thinking over it, he saw that it 
might be as well if he took the bold measure he contemplated 
without revealing it to his friend, to whom the knowledge might 
be the cause of inconvenience. He therefore went home and to 
bed, that.he might be strong for the next day. 


CHAPTER LI 
THE PSYCHE. 


He rose early the next morning, and having fed and dressed 
Kelpie, strapped her blanket behind her saddle, and, by all the 
- macadamized ways he could find, rode her to the wharf—near 
where the Thames-tunnel had just been commenced. He had 
no great difficulty with her on the way, though it was rather 
nervous work at times. But of late her submission to her master 
had been decidedly growing. When he reached the wharf, he ~ 
rode her straight along the gangway on to the deck of the smack, 
as the easiest if not perhaps the safest way of getting her on 
board. As soon as she was properly secured, and he had satis- 
fied himself as to the provision they had made for her, impressed 
upon the captain the necessity of being bountiful to her, and 
brought a loaf of sugar on board for her use, he left her with a 
lighter heart than he had had ever since first he fetched her from 
the same deck. 

It was a long way to walk home, but he felt much better, and 
thought nothing of it. And all the way, to his delight, the wind 
met him in the face. A steady westerly breeze was blowing. If 
God makes his angels winds, as the Psalmist says, here was one | 
sent to wait upon him. He reached Portland Place in time to 


ce ik : 


present himself for orders at the usual fede On these occasions, 
his mistress not unfrequently saw him herself, but to make sure, ae 


said kindly, as he entered the room, where happily he found her 


of him. The housekeeper let me go up to his painting-room ; 


Bia ot THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. ats 


he sent up the request that she would speak with him. 3 
“T am sorry to hear that you have been ill, Malcolm,” she 


alone. | 
“Tam quite well now, thank you, my lady,” he returned. “I 
thought your ladyship would like to hear something I mae 
to come to the knowledge of the other day.” 
“Ves? What was that?” 
“T called at Mr Lenorme’s to learn what news there mile be 


and what should I see there, my lady, but the portrait of my 
lord marquis more beautiful than ever, the brown smear all gone, 
and the likeness, to my mind, greater ‘than before !” a 

“Then Mr Lenorme is come home!” cried Florimel, scarce : 
attempting to conceal the pleasure his report gave her. 

“That I cannot say,” said Malcolm. “ His housekeeper had ; 
a letter from him a few days ago from Newcastle. If he is come 
back, I do not think she knows it. It seems strange, for whoem 
would touch one of his pictures but himself ?—except, indeed, a 
he got some friend ‘to set it to rights for your ladyship. Anyhow, ‘ 
I thought you would like to see it again.” 

“T will go at once,” Florimel said, rising hastily. “ Get the a 
horses, Malcolm, as fast as you can.” . 

it my Lord Liftore should come before we start?” he sug 
gested. 

““ Make haste,” returned his mistress, impatiently. 

Malcolm did make ‘haste, and so did Florimel. What pre-e 
cisely was in her thoughts who shall say, when she could not a 
have told herself? But doubtless the chance of seeing Lenorme — 
urged her more than the desire to see her father’s portrait. 
Within twenty minutes they were riding down Grosvenor Place 
and happily heard no following hoof- beats. When they came 
near the river, Malcolm rode up to her and said, 

“Would your ladyship allow me to put up ‘the horses in Mr — 
Lenorme’s stable? I think I could show your ladyship a point 
or two that may have escaped you.” gE 

Florimel thought for a moment, and concluded it would be. i 
less awkward, would indeed tend rather to her advantage with — 
Lenorme, should he really be there, to have Malcolm with her. — 

h Very well,” she answered. ey see no objection... I will | 
ride round with you to the stable, and we can go in the back 
way. ” 


a 


i 
a 
, ad 
Js ‘g 
a 


THE PSYCHE, 231 


They did so. The gardener took the horses, and they went 
up to the study. Lenorme was not there, and everything was 
just as when Malcolm was last in the room. Florimel was much 
disappointed, but Malcolm talked to her about the portrait, and 
did all he could to bring back vivid the memory of her father. 
At length with a little sigh she made a movement to go. 

“Has your ladyship ever seen the river from the next room?” 
said Malcolm, and, as he spoke, threw open the door of com- 
munication, near which they stood. 

Florimel, who was always ready to see, walked straight into the 
drawing-room, and went to a window. 

“There is that yacht lying there still!” remarked Malcolm. 
“Does she not remind you of the Psyche, my lady?” 

«Every boat does that,” answered his mistress. ‘I dream 
about her. But I couldn't tell her from many another.” 

“People used to boats, my lady, learn to know them like the 
faces of their friends.—What a day for a sail !” 

“Do you suppose that one is for hire?” said Florimel. 

“We can ask,” replied Malcolm; and with that went ta 
another window, raised the sash, put his head out, and whistled. 
Over tumbled Davy into the dinghy at the Psyche’s stern, unloosed 
the painter, and was rowing for the shore ere the minute was out. 

“Why, they’re answering your whistle already!” said 
Florimel. 

‘A whistle goes farther, and perhaps is more imperative than 
any other call,” returned Malcolm evasively, ‘ Will your lady- 
ship come down and hear what they say?” 

A wave from the slow-silting lagoon of her girlhood came 
washing over the sands between, and Florimel flew merrily down 
the stair and across hall and garden and road to the river-bank, 
where was a little wooden stage or landing place, with a few 
steps, at which the dinghy was just arriving. 

“Will you take us on board and show us your boat?” said 
Malcolm. 

“ Ay, ay, sir,” answered Davy. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Florimel took Malcolm’s 
offered hand, and stepped into the boat. Malcolm took the 
oars, and shot the little tub across the river. When they got 
alongside the cutter, Travers reached down both his hands for 
hers, and Malcolm held one of his for her foot, and Florimel 
sprang on deck, 

* Young woman on board, Davy ?” whispered Malcolm. 

Ay, ay, sir—doon 7’ the fore,” answered Davy, and Malcolm 
stood by his mistress. 


So o9as THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE, ee 


went swiftly down the smooth stream. Florimel clapped her 


inches with his magic-like steering, in the midst of a little covey — 


ee ys 
¥ © de it 
7 * 


oat 


“She zs like the Psyche,” said Florimel, turning to him, “ only — 
the mast is not so tall.” aes 
“Her topmast is struck, you see my lady—to make sure of 
her passing clear under the bridges.” ee 
“ Ask them if we couldn’t go down the river a little way,” said — 


at 
Florimel. ‘I should so like to see the houses from it!” ae 
Malcolm conferred a moment with Travers and returned. ae 
“They are quite willing, my lady,” he said. i 
“What fun!” cried Florimel her girlish spirit all at the sur 
face. “How I should like to run away from horrid London 
altogether, and never hear of it again !—Dear old Lossie House f 
and the boats! and the fishermen!” she added meditatively. 
The anchor was already up, and the yacht drifting with the 
falling tide. A moment more and she spread a low treble-reefed _ 
mainsail behind, a little jib before, and the western breeze filled _ 
and swelled and made them alive, and with wind and tide she ae 
hands with delight. The shores and all their houses fled up the 
river. They slid past row-boats, and great heavy barges loaded __ 
to the lip, with huge red sails and yellow, glowing and gleaming 
in the hot sun. For one moment the shadow of Vauxhall = 
Bridge gloomed like a death-cloud, chill and cavernous, over 
their heads ; then out again they shot into the lovely light and 
heat of the summer world. ci 
“It’s well we ain’t got to shoot Putney or Battersea,” said 
Travers with a grim smile, as he stood shaping her course by a 
of pleasure-boats : “with this wind we might ha’ brought either 
on ’em about our ears like an old barn.” Pe 
“This zs life!” cried Florimel, as the river bore them nearer _ 
and nearer to the vortex—deeper and deeper into the tumult of 
London. How solemn the silent yet never resting highway!— __ 
almost majestic in the stillness of its hurrying might as it rolled _ 
heedless past houses and wharfs that crowded its brinks. They 
darted through under Westminster Bridge, and boats and barges 
more and more numerous covered the stream. Waterloo Bridge, — 
Blackfriars’ Bridge they passed. Sunlight all, and flashing water, _ 
and gleaming oars, and gay boats, and endless motion! out or 
which rose calm, solemn, reposeful, the resting yet hoverin g Be, 
dome of St Paul’s, with its satellite spires, glittering in the 
tremulous hot air that swathed in multitudinous ripples the mighty 
city. Southwark Bridge—and only London Bridge lay between, is 
them and the open river, still widening as it flowed to the aged 
ocean, Through the centre arch they shot, and lo! a world of 


se 7 


2 


THE PSYCHE, — gece 


masts, waiting to woo with white sails the winds that should bear 
them across deserts of water to lands of wealth and mystery. 
Through the labyrinth led the highway of the stream, and down- 
ward they still swept—-past the Tower, and past the wharf where 
that morning Malcolm had said good-bye for a time to his four- 
footed subject and friend. Thesmack’s place was empty. With her 
hugest of sails, she was tearing and flashing away, out of their 
sight, far down the river before them. Through dingy dreary 
Limehouse they sank, and coasted the melancholy, houseless 
Isle of Dogs; but on all sides were ships and ships, and when 
they thinned at last, Greenwich rose before them. London and 
the parks looked unendurable from this more varied life, more 
plentiful air, and above all more abundant space. The very 
spirit of freedom seemed to wave his wings about the yacht, 
fanning full her sails. Florimel breathed as if she never could 
have enough of the sweet wind; each breath gave her all the 
boundless region whence it blew ; she gazed as if she would fill 
her soul with the sparkling gray of the water, the sun-melted blue 
of the sky, and the incredible green of the flat shores. For: 
minutes she would be silent, her parted lips revealing her 
absorbed delight, then break out in a volley of questions, now 
addressing Malcolm, now Travers. She tried Davy too, but 
Davy knew nothing except his duty here. The Thames was 
like an unknown eternity to the creature of the Wan Water— 
about which, however, he could have told her a thousand things. 
Down and down the river they flew, and not until miles and 
miles of meadows had come between her and London, not 
indeed until Gravesend appeared, did it occur to Florimel that 
pethaps it might be well to think by-and-by of returning. But 
she trusted everything to Malcolm, who of course would see that 
everything was as it ought to be. 

Her excitement began to flag a little. She was getting tired. 
The bottle had been strained by the ferment of the wine. She 
turned to Malcolm. 

“Had we not better be putting about ?” she said. “I should 
like to go on for ever—but we must come another day, better 
provided. We shall hardly be in time for lunch.” 

It was nearly four o’clock, but she rarely looked at her watch, 
and indeed wound it up only now and then. 

‘Will you go below and have some lunch, my lady?” said 
Malcolm. 3 

“There can’t be anything on board !” she answered. 

“Come and see my lady,” rejoined Malcolm, and led the way 
to the companion. 


pee only smaller! Is it not Malcolm?” 


tes Malcolm ?” 


: - book was either one she knew or one of which Malcolm had — 


THE MARQUIS ¢ OF LOSS: | i 


_ When she saw the little cabin, she gave be ay of ds 
hight. ms 
we Why, it is just like our own cabin in the Psyche,” she said, 


“It is smaller, my lady,” returned Malcolm, “but then there ‘e 
is a little state-room beyond.” 

On the table was a nice meal—cold, but not the less scotia Y 
in the summer weather. Everything looked charming. ‘There 
were flowers ; the linen was snowy ; and the bread was the very, a 
sort Florimel liked best. 

“Tt is a perfect fairy-tale!” she cried. “And I declare here 
is our crest on the forks and spoons !—What does it all mead, 


But Malcolm had slipped away, and gone on deck again, — 
leaving her to food and conjecture, while he brought Rose up s 
from the fore-cabin for a little air. Finding her fast. asleep, how- 
ever, he left her undisturbed. 3 

Florimel finished her meal, and set about examining the g 
cabin more closely. The result was bewilderment. Howcoulda — 
yacht, fitted with such completeness, such luxury, be lying for og 
hire in the Thames? As for the crest on the plate, that was a_ 
curious coincidence: many people had the same crest. But — 
_ both materials and colours were like those of the Pysche! Then * 
the pretty bindings on the book-shelves attracted her: ove 


spoken to her! He must have had a hand in the business! . 
Next she opened the door of the state-room ; but when she saw 
the lovely little white berth, and the indications of Sem comfort — Ey. 
belonging to a lady’s chamber, she could keep her pleasure to- 
herself no longer. She hastened to the coimpanion-way, and | 
called Malcolm. * 

“What does it all mean?” she said, her eyes and cheeks 
glowing with delight. a 
__ “Tt means, my lady, that you are on board your own yacht, Sas 
the Pysche. I brought her with me from Portlossie, and have — 
had her fitted up according to the wish you once expressed to — 
my lord, your father, that you could sleep on board. Now yous 
might make a voyage of many days in her.” a 

“Oh, Malcolm!” was all Florimel could answer. She was 
too pleased to think as yet of any of the thousand questions that 
might naturally have followed. i: 

“Why, you've got the Arabian Nights, and all my favohertes 
books there !” she said at length.—‘ How long shall we haves 
before we get among the ships again; oe 


THE PSYCHE. | 235 


She fancied she had given orders to return, and that the boat 
had been put about. 

“A good many hours, my lady,” answered Malcolm. 

‘Ah, of course!” she returned ; it takes much longer against 
wind and tide.—But my time is my own,” she added, rather in 
the manner of one asserting a freedom she did not feel, ‘and I 
don’t see why I should trouble myself. It will make some to-do, 
I daresay, if I don’t appear at dinner; but it won’t do anybody 


_any harm. They wouldn't break their hearts if they never saw 


me again.” 

“Not one of them, my lady,” said Malcolm. 

She lifted her head sharply, but took. no farther notice of his 
remark: 

“I won't be plagued any more,’ aie said, holding counsel with 
herself, but intending Malcolm to hear. “ I will break with them 
rather. Why should I not be as free as Clementina? She 
comes and goes when and where she likes, and does what she 
pleases.” 

“Why, indeed?” said Malcolm; and a pause followed, 
during which Florimel stood apparently thinking, but in reality 
growing sleepy. 

“T will lie down a little,” she said, “with one of those lovely 
books.” 

The excitement, the air, and the pleasure generally had 
wearied her. Nothing could have suited Malcolm better. He 
left her. She went to her berth, and fell fast asleep. 

When she awoke, it was some time before she could think 
where she was. A strange ghostly light was about her, in which 
she could see nothing plain; but the motion helped her to 
understand. She rose, and crept to the companion ladder, and 
up on deck. Wonder upon wonder! A clear full moon reigned 
high in the heavens, and below there was nothing but water, 
gleaming with her molten face, or rushing past the boat lead- 


coloured, gray, and white. Here and there a vessel—a snow- ~ 


cloud of sails—would glide between them and the moon, and 
turn black from truck to water-line. The mast of the Psyche had 
shot up to its full height ; the reef-points of the mainsail were loose, 
and the gaff was crowned with its topsail ; foresail and jib were full ; 
and she was flying as if her soul thirsted within her after infinite 
spaces. Yet what more could she want? All around her was — 
wave rushing upon wave, and above her blue heaven and regnant 
moon. Florimel gave a great sigh of delight. 

But what did it—what could it mean? What was Malcolm 
about? Where was he taking her? What would London say to 


236 ss THE MARQUIS" OF LOSSIE, 


an such an escapade extraordinary? Tar Bellair Toni be ‘the 2 


~ Lenorme. 
answered, 
feel as one no longer lady of herself and her people, but a~ 
left me to believe we were on our way back to London—and here 


we are out at sea! Am I no longer your mistressP AmIa 


care of that.” 


_and thoughtful, in a tone deprecating and apologetic. 


on you.” 


first to believe she had run away with her groom—she knew so 


_ many instances of that sort of thing! and Lord Liftore would be a 


the next. It was too bad of Malcolm! But she did not feel 
very angry with him, notwithstanding, for had he not doneitto 
give her pleasurer And assuredly he had not failed. He 
knew better than anyone how to please her—better even than — + 4 


ae 


She looked around her. No one was to be seen but Davie, 
who was steering. The main-sail hid the men, and Rose, having 
been on deck for two or three hours, was again below. She a 
turned to Davy. But the boy had been schooled, and only 


“‘T maunna sae naething sae lang’s I’m steerin’, mem.” 
She called Malcolm. He was beside her ere his name had left 
her lips. ‘The boy’s reply had irritated her, and, coming upon > 
this sudden and utter change in her circumstances, made her — 


prisoner. 4 a 
“Once more, what does this mean, Malcolm?” she said, in 
high displeasure. ‘You have deceived me shamefully! You 


child, to be taken where you please?—And what, pray, is to 
become of the horses you left at Mr Lenorme’s?” 
Malcolm was glad of a question he was prepared to answer. ag 
“They are in their own stalls by this time, my lady. Itook 


“Then it was all a trick to carry me off against my will !” she 
cried, with growing indignation. 

“Hardly against your will, my lady,” said Malcolm, embarrassed 
“Utterly against my will!” insisted Florimel. ‘Could I ever 3 
have consented to go to sea with a boatful of men, and nota 
woman on board? You have disgraced me, Malcolm. x - 

- Between anger and annoyance she was on the point of on om 

“It’s not so bad as that, my lady.—Here, Rose!” 

_ At his word, Rose appeared. . 

*T've brought one of Lady Bellair’s maids for your service, my 
lady,” Malcolm went on. ‘She will do the best she can to walt 


.oM 


Florimel gave her a look. 
“TJ don’t remember you,” she said. 
“No, my lady. I was in the kitchen,” 


THE PSYCHE. 239 


“Then you can’t be of much use to me.” 

“A willing heart goes a long way, my lady,’ 
prettily. ; 

“That is true,” returned Florimel, rather pleased. “Can you 
get me some tea?” 

“Ves, my lady.” 

Florimel turned, and, much to Malcolm’s content vouchsafing 
_him not a word more, went below. 

Presently a little silver lamp appeared in the roof of the cabin, 
and in a few minutes Davy came, carrying the tea-tray, and 
followed by Rose with the teapot. As soon as they were alone, 
Florimel began to question Rose; but the girl soon satisfied her 
that she knew little or nothing. When Florimel pressed her how 
she could go she knew not where at the desire of a fellow-servant, 
she gave such confused and apparently contradictory answers, 
‘that Florimel began to think ill of both her and Malcolm, and to 
feel more uncomfortable and indignant ; and the more she dwelt 
upon Malcolm’s presumption, and speculated as to his possible 
design in it, she grew the angrier. 

She went again on deck. By this time she was in a passion— 
little mollified by the sense of her helplessness. 

“MacPhail,” she said, laying the restraint of dignified utter- 
ance upon her words, “I desire you to give me a good reason 
for your most unaccountable behaviour. Where are you taking 

me?” 

“To Lossie House, my lady.” 

“Indeed !” she returned with scornful and contemptuous sur- 
prise. ‘“‘‘Then I order you to change your course at once and 
return to London.” 

“TY cannot, my lady.” 

“Cannot! Whose orders but mine are you under, pray?” 

‘Your father’s, my lady.” 

“7 have heard more than enough of that unfortunate—state- _ 
ment, and the measureless assumptions founded on it. I shall — 
heed it no longer.” ‘ 

“T am only doing my best to take care of you, my lady, as I pro- 
mised Aim. You will know it one day if you will but trust me.” 

“T have trusted you ten times too much, and have gained 
nothing in return but reasons for repenting it. Like all other 
servants made too much of, you have grown insolent. But I 
shall put a stop to it. I cannot possibly keep you in my service ~ 
after this. Am I to pay a mastcr where I want a servant?” 

Malcolm was silent. 

“You must have some reason for this strange conduct,” she 


? 


said Rose, 


by 


you in treating me with such disrespect. Let me know your Jam 5 
reasons. . I have a right to know them.” «a 


justify it.” 


- Liftore—and without me to do as I had promised.” 


history is known ; and that her nephew is a scoundrel.” . 


238 THE MARQUIS. OF LOSSIE, 
went on. “How can your supposed duty to my Ris : juste 
«J will answer you, my lady,” said Malcolm. ‘“—Davy, aa 


forward ; I will take the helm.—Now, my lady, if you will siton 
that cushion. —Rose, bring my lady a fur-cloak you will find in 


the cabin.—Now, my lady, if you will speak low that neither 
ia Davy nor Rose shall hear us.—Travers is deaf—I will answer | aa 


ou.” ee. 
“T ask you,” said Florimel, “why you have dared to bring me 
away like this. Nothing but some danger threatening me could o. 


“There you say it, my lady.” 
“ And what is the danger, pray?” ae 
“You were going on the continent with Lady Bellair and Lord eS 


“Vou insult me!” cried Florimel. “Are my movements to | 
be subject to the approbation of my groom? Is it possible my a : 
father could give his henchman such authority over his aust 
I ask you again, where was the danger ?” a 

“Tn your company, my lady.” | a 4 

“So!” exclaimed Florimel, attempting to rise in sarcasm as 
she rose in wrath, lest she should fall into undignified rage. “a 1 
“ And what may be your objection to my companions ?” os 

“That Lady Bellair is not respected in any circle where her. 2 


ee 


“Tt but adds to the wrong you heap on me, that you compel me 3 = 
to hear such wicked abuse of my father’s friends,” said Florimel, | 
struggling with tears of anger. But for regard to her dignity she 
would have broken out in fierce and voluble rage. 

“If your father knew Lord Liftore as I do, he would be chem 
last man my lord marquis would see in your company.” Ag 

“‘Because he gave you a beating, you have no nght to slange 
him,” said Florimel spitefully. 

Malcolm laughed. He must either laugh or be angry. 

“May I ask how your ladyship came to hear of that?” 

“He told me himself,” she answered. | 

“Then, my lady, he is a liar, as well as worse. It was eI who a 
gave him the drubbing he deserved for his insolence to my—mis- Bs 
tress. J am sorry to mention the disagreeable fact, but it is — 
absolutely necessary you should know what sort of man he is.” 

“And, if there be a lie, shes of the two is more likely to 
fellate.” a 

“That question is for you, my lady, to answer.” 


PT er Pe ier fant Lite ee! Seer Nee ght) Shy r 
oO ™ ea ee 4 ole he eae oe Plt nt . 4 
SY ORAS Sn sears 4 eet ae) Fes Aa 2 en ied 
+> : " y Lt pa : ae 
4 Ne, a aap ee Ny 


THE PSYCHE. — 239 


“T never knew a servant who would not tell a lie,” said 


Florimel. 

“T was brought up a fisherman,” said Malcolm. 

«‘And,” Florimel went on, ‘‘I have heard my father say no 
gentleman ever told a lie.” 

“Then Lord Liftore is no gentleman,” said Malcolm. “ But 
I am not going to plead my own cause even to you, my lady. If 
you can doubt me, do.’ I have only one thing more to say :— 


that when I told you and my Lady Clementina about the fisher- 


girl and the gentleman ‘ 

“How dare you refer to that again? Even you ought to know 
there are things a lady cannot hear. It is enough you affronted 
me with that before Lady Clementina—and after foolish boasts 
on my part of your good breeding! Now you bring it up again, 
when I cannot escape your low talk!” 

‘My lady, I am sorrier than you think ; but which is worse— 
that you should hear such a thing spoken of, or make a friend of 
the man who did it—and that is Lord Liftore?” 

Florimel turned away, and gave her seeming attention to the 
moonlit waters, sweeping past the swift-sailing cutter. Malcolm’s 
heart ached for her: he thought she was deeply troubled. But 
she was not half so shocked as he imagined. Infinitely worse 
would have been the shock to him could he have seen how little 
the charge against Liftore had touched her. Alas! evil com- 
munications had already in no small degree corrupted her good 
manners. Lady Bellair had uttered no bad words in her hearing: 
had softened to decency every story that required it; had not 
unfrequently tacked a worldly-wise moral to the end of one; and 
yet, and yet, such had been the tone of her telling, such the 
allotment of laughter and lamentation, such the acceptance ot 
things as necessary, and such the repudiation of things as Quixotic, 
puritanical, impossible, that the girl’s natural notions of the lovely 
and the clean had got dismally shaken and confused. Happily 
it was as yet more her judgment than her heart that was perverted. 
But had she spoken out what was in her thoughts as she looked 
over the great wallowing water, she would have merely said that 
for all that Liftore was no worse than other men. They were all 


“14 ?m,' “oe Stak 2 Cae 
Ss Soy rae! AN t,t 
4 Vt Sasol. © 
‘ 


\ 


the same. It was very unpleasant ; but how could a lady help 


it? If men would behave so, were by nature like that, women 
must not make themselves miserable about it. They need ask 
no questions, They were not supposed to be acquainted with 
the least fragment of the facts, and they must cleave to their 
ignorance, and lay what blame there might be on the women 
concerned. The thing was too indecent even to think about, 


‘ne Ostrich like they must hide thet Aondenclors their eyes. and tak ce 
the vice in their arms—to love, honour, and obey, as if it were — Bi 

__virtue’s self, and men as pure as their demands on their wives. 
_ There are thousands that virtually reason thus: Only ignore 
the thing effectually, and for you it is not. Lie right thoroughly 
to yourself, and the thing is gone. The lie destroys the fact. So 


could no longer keep even the smell of the blood from her. What 
need Lady Lossie care about the fisher-girl, or any other con- 
cerned with his past, so long as he behaved like a gentlemanto  __ 
her! Malcolm was a foolish meddling fellow, whose inte | 
_ was the more troublesome that it was ‘honest. 
_ She stood thus gazing on the waters that heaved and sweol 
astern, but without knowing that she saw them, her mind fullof = 
such nebulous matter as, condensed, would have made such zee, 
thoughts as I have set down. And still and ever the water rolled — 
and tossed away behind in the moonlight. = 
“Qh, my lady!” said Malcolm, “what it would be to have a 
~ soul as big and as clean as all this!” 
_ She made no reply, did not turn her head, or acknowledge that 
she heard him, a few minutes more she stood, then went below. 
in silence, and Malcolm saw no more of her that night, | 


“a . 7 
Pe! 


CHAPTER LIL 
HOPE CHAPEL. 


__ Ir was Sunday, during which Malcolm lay at the point of death 
some three stories above his sister’s room, There, in ne us 
morning, while he was at the worst, she was talking with 
_ Clementina, who had called to see whether she would not go 
__ and hear the preacher of whom he had spoken with such fervoutaag . 
Florimel laughed. . 
You seem to take everything for gospel Malcolm says, 
Clementina ! ” a 
yi “Certainly not,” returned Clementina, rather annoyed. 
We AzOspel now-a-days i is what nobody disputes and nobody heeds; 
oe but I do heed what Malcolm says, and intend to find out, if 13 2 
__ ¢an, whether there is any reality in it. I thought you had a high ia 
opinion of your groom !” a 
“TJ would take his word for anything a man’s word can be i 
3 _ taken for,” said Florimel. a 


nh 


HOPE CHAPEL. a4t 


“But you don’t set much store by his judgment ?” 

*€Oh, I daresay he’s right. But I don’t care for the things 
you like so much to talk with him about. He’s a sort of poet, 
anyhow, and poets must be absurd. They are always either 
dreaming or talking about their dreams. They care nothing for 
the realities of life. No—if you want advice, you must go to 
your lawyer or clergyman, or some man of common sense, neither 
groom nor poet.” 

“Then, Florimel, it comes to this—that this groom of yours 1s 
one of the truest of men, and one who possessed your father’s 
confidence, but you are so much his superior that you are | 
capable of judging him, and justified in despising his judgment. v 

‘Only in practical matters, Clementina.” 

‘And duty towards God is with you such a practical matter 
that you cannot listen to anything he has got to say about it.” 

Florimel shrugged her shoulders. 

“For my part, I would give all I have to know there was a God 
worth believing 1n.” 

“‘Clementina!” 

“What?” 

“Of course there is a God. It is very horrible to deny it.” 

“Which is worse—to deny z¢, or to deny 47m? Now, I con- 
fess to doubting z#—that is, the fact of a God ; but you seem to 
me to deny God himself, for you admit there is a God—think it 
very wicked to deny that, and yet you don’t take interest enough 
in him to wish to learn anything about him. You won't ¢hink, 
Florimel. I don’t fancy you ever really ¢hink.” 

Florimel again laughed. 

“Tam glad,” she said, “that you don’t judge me éncapable of 
that high art. But it is not so very long since Malcolm used to 
hint something much the same about yourself, my lady !” 

“Then he was quite right,” returned Clementina. “I am 
only just beginning to think, and if I can find a teacher, here I 
am, his pupil.” 

“Well, I suppose I can spare my groom quite enough to teach 
you all he knows,” Florimel said, with what Clementina took for 
a marked absence of expression. She reddened. But she was 
not one to defend herself before her principles. 

“If he can, why should he not?” she said. ‘‘ But it was of 
his friend Mr Graham I was thinking—not himself.” 

“You cannot tell whether he has got anything to teach you.” 

“Your groom’s testimony gives likelihood enough to make it 
my duty to go and see. I intend to find the place this 
evening.” . 


Q 


aa ‘THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


“Tt must be some little ranting methodist conventicle ! 
_ would not be allowed to preach in a church, you know.” 
“Ofcourse not! The church of England is like the apostle 
_that forbade the man casting out devils, and got forbid himself for _ 
it—with this difference that she won't be forbid. ‘Well, she — “ 4 
_. chooses her portion with Dives and not Lazarus. She is the most 
____ arrant respecter of persons I know, and her Christianity is worse 
than a farce. It was that first of all that drove me to doubt. If — a 
I could find a place where everything was just the opposite, the E 
poorer it was the better I should like it. It makes me feel quite 
wicked to hear a smug parson reading the gold ring and the Pe 
goodly apparel, while the pew-openers beneath are illustrating in 2 
dumb show the very thing the apostle is pouring out the vial of 
his indignation upon over their heads ;—doing it calmly and — 
without a suspicion, for the parson, while he reads, is rejoicing Inks 
his heart over the increasing aristocracy of his congregation. The 
___-farce is fit to make a devil in torment laugh.” 
ag Once more, Florimel laughed aloud. 
‘* Another revolution, Clementina, and we shall have you head- | 
ing the canaille to destroy Westminster Abbey.” 
“JT would follow any leader to destroy falsehood,” sida | 
Clementina. ‘No canaille will take that up until it meddles 3 
with their stomachs or their pew-rents.” “3am 
“Really, Clementina, you are the worst Jacobin I ever heard — py 
talk. My groom is quite an aristocrat beside you.” | 
“Not an atom more than I am. I do acknowledge an < 
2 aristocracy—but it is one neither of birth nor of intellect nor of 
~ wealth.” a 
“What is there besides to make one?” ay 
‘Something I hope to find before long. What if there be indeed — & 
a kingdom and an aristocracy of life and truth !—Will you or will @ 
ae: you not go with me to hear this schoolmaster?” ~¥ a 
age “TJ will go anywhere with you, if it were only to be seen with — 
such a beauty,” said Florimel, throwing her arms round her neck 
and kissing her. = 
_.  Clementina gently returned the embrace, and the thing was 
fee settled.” 
‘The sound of their wheels, pausing in swift revolution with the 
- _ clangor of iron hoofs on rough stones at the door of the chapel, — 
__ refreshed the diaconal heart like the sound of water in the desert. — 


___._ For the first time in the memory of the oldest, the day-spring of — 
success seemed on the point of breaking over Hope Chapel. — 

ne The ladies were ushered in by Mr Marshal himself, to. 
‘ Clementina’s disgust and Florimel’s amusement, with much the 


HOPE CHAPEL, 243 


same attention as his own shop-walkcr would have shown to 
carriage-customers.—How could a man who taught light and 
truth be found in such a mean extourage? But the setting was not 
the jewel. A real stone mzght be found in a copper ring. So said 
Clementina to herself as she sat waiting her hoped for instructor. 
Mrs Catanach settled her broad back into its corner, chuckling 
over her own wisdom and foresight. Her seat was at the pulpit 


-end of the chapel, at right angles to almost all the rest of the 


pews, chosen because thence, if indeed she could not well see the 
preacher, she could get a good glimpse of nearly everyone that 
entered. Keen-sighted both physically and intellectually, she 
recognized Florimel the moment she saw her. 

“Twa doos mair to the boody-craw!” she laughed to herself. 
“Ae man thrashin’, an’ twa birdies pickin’ !” she went on, quoting 
the old nursery nonsense. ‘Then she stooped, and let down her 
veil. Florimel hated her, and therefore might know her. 

“It’s the day o’ the Lord wi’ auld Sanny Grame !” she resumed 
to herself, as she lifted her head. “ He’s stickit nae mair, but a 
chosen trumpet at last! Foul fa’ ’im for a wearifu’ cratur for a’ 
that! He has nowther balm o’ grace nor pith o’ damnation. 
Yon laad Flemin’, ’at preached 7 the Baillies’ Barn aboot the 
dowgs gaein’ roon’ an’ roon’ the wa’s o’ the New Jeroozlem, gien 
he had but hauden thegither an’ no gean to the worms sae sune, 
wad hae dung a score o’ ‘Im. But Sanny angers me to that 
degree ‘at but for rizons—like yon twa—I wad gang oot?’ the 
mids o’ ane o’’s palahvers, an’ never come back, though I ha’e a 
haill quarter o’ my sittin’ to sit oot yet, an’ it cost me dear, an’ fits 
the auld back o’ me no that ill.” 

When Mr Graham rose to read the psalm, great was Clementina’s 
disappointment: he looked altogether, as she thought, of a sort 
with the place—mean and dreary—of the chapel very chapelly, 
and she did not believe it could be the man of whom Malcolm 
had spoken. By a strange coincidence however, a kind of 
occurrence as frequent as strange, he read for his text that same 
passage about the gold ring and the vile raiment, in which we 
learn how exactly the behaviour of the early Jewish churches 
corresponded to that of the later English ones, and Clementina 
soon began to alter her involuntary judgment of him when she 
found herself listening to an utterance beside which her most 
voluble indignation would have been but as the babble of a child. 
Sweeping, incisive, withering, blasting denunciation, logic and 
poetry combining in one torrent of genuine eloquence, poured 
confusion and dismay upon head and heart of all who set them- 
selves up for pillars ot the church without practising the first 


Wi x 


bes a Y om i; Ps 
¥ eEy Jy Ab We “ ne oe Seky 
aad. THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


dull and slow of heart, that they would never know what the _ 
outer darkness meant until it had closed around them—men who 


whether this was Malcolm’s friend, vanished within two minutes 


_ that dwarfed her loudest objurgation to the uneasy murmuring of 
asleeper. She could not but trust him, and her hope grew great 


ne creation, the scale of the kingdom of God, in which Jeng is rang; 


there, or sit here under my footstool?’ ” 


principles of the doctrine of Christ—men who, professing to 
gather their fellows together in the name of Christ, conducted the 
affairs of the church on the principles of hell—men so blind and 


Fe | 
_ 


paid court to the rich for their money, and to the poor for their — a 
numbers—men who sought gain first, safety next, and the will of _ 
God not at all—men whose presentation of Christianity was 
enough to drive the world to a preferable infidelity. a 

Clementina listened with her very soul. All doubt as to 


of his commencement. If she rejoiced a little more than was — Be 
humble or healthful in finding that such a man thought as she 


_ thought, she gained this good notwithstanding—the presence and — a 
- power of a man who believed in righteousness the doctrine he ~ 


taught. Also she perceived that the principles of equality he 
held, were founded on the infinite possibilities of the individual 

—and of the race only through the individual; and that he held 
these principles with an absoluteness, an earnestness, a simplicity, 


that perhaps for her he held the key of the kingdom of heaven. __ 
She saw that if what this man said was true, then the gospel was 
represented by men who knew nothing of its real nature, and by 
such she had been led into a false judgment of it. “If sucha 
man,” said the schoolmaster in conclusion, “would but once 
represent to himself that the man whom he regards as beneath 
him, may nevertheless be immeasurably above him—and that __ 
after no arbitrary judgment, but according to the absolute facts of 


eet 
es - 
ot 


if he could persuade himself of the possibility that he may yet 
have to worship before the feet of those on whom he looks down 
as on the creatures of another and meaner order of creation, 
would it not sting him to rise, and, lest this should be one of 
such, make offer of his chair to the poor man in the vileraiment? __ 


% 


Would he ever more, all his life long, dare to say, ‘Stand thou ae 


ee 


During the week that followed, Clementina reflected with - 


5 growing delight on what she had heard, and looked forward to | 


hearing more of a kind correspondent on the approaching Sunday. 
Nor did the shock of the disappearance of Florimel with Malcolm 
abate her desire to be taught by Malcolm’s friend. aa 

Lady Bellair was astounded, mortified, enraged. Liftore turned — a 
grey with passion, then livid with mortification, at the news. Nota 


\ <8 


A NEW PUPIL. - 245 


one of all their circle, as Florimel had herself foreseen, doubted — 
fora moment that she had run away with that groom of hers. 
Indeed, upon examination, it became evident that the scheme 
had been for some time in hand: the yacht they had gone on 
board had been lying there for months; and although she was 
her own mistress, and might marry whom she pleased, it was no 
wonder she had run away, for how could she have heid her face 
to it, or up after it ? 
_ Lady Clementina accepted the general conclusion, but judged 
it individually. She had more reason to be distressed at 
what seemed to have taken place than anyone else ; indeed it 
stung her to the heart, wounding her worse than in its first 
stunning effects she was able to know; yet she thought better 
rather than worse of Florimel because of it. What she did not 
like in her with reference to the affair was the depreciatory 
manner in which she had always spoken of Malcolm. If 
genuine, it was quite inconsistent with due regard for the man 
for whom she was yet prepared to sacrifice so much; if, on the 
other hand, her slight opinion of his judgment was a pretence, 
then she had been disloyal to the just prerogatives of friendship. 
The latter part of that week was the sorest time Clementina 
had ever passed. But, like a true woman, she fought her own 
misery and sense of loss, as well as her annoyance and anxiety, 
constantly saying to herself that, be the thing as it might, she 
could never cease to be glad that she had known Malcolm 
MacPhail, 


CHAPTER CLITL 
A NEW PUPIL. 


THE sermon Lady Clementina heard with such delight had fol- ~ 
lowed one levelled at the common and right worldly idea of 
success harboured by each, and unquestioned by one of the chief 
men of the community: together they caused a strange uncertain 
sense of discomfort in the mind diaconal. Slow to perceive that 
that idea, nauseous in his presentment of it, was the very same 
cherished and justified by themselves ; unwilling also to believe 
that in his denunciation of respecters of persons they themselves 
had a full share, they yet felt a little uneasy from the vague 
whispers of their consciences on the side of the neglected prin- 


_ though whether he was to be sent to persuade men that that a 
kingdom was amongst them, and must be in them, remained a 


ahi a 


oes oF pat men QUIS OF LOSSTE. a a 


ciples enounced, clashing with the less vague conviction that 
those whispers were encouraged and listened to, the ruin of the : 
hopes for their chapel, and their influence in connection with it, 
_ must follow. They eyed each other doubtfully, and there 
appeared a general tendency amongst them to close-pressed lips 
and single shakes of the head. But there were other forces ate 
work—tending in the same direction. a 
Whatever may have been the influence of the schoolmaster ee 
upon the congregation gathered in Hope Chapel, there was one 
on whom his converse, supplemented by his preaching, had 
_ taken genuine hold. Frederick Marshal had begun to open his 
_ eyes to the fact that, regarded as a profession, the ministry, as a 
they called it in their communion, was the meanest way of mak- 
ing a living in the whole creation, one deserving the contempt of 
every man honest enough to give honourable work, that is, work 4 
worth the money, for the money paid him. Also he hada glim- 
mering insight, on the other hand, into the truth of what the 
dominie said—that it was the noblest of martyrdoms to the man 
who, sent by God, loved the truth with his whole soul, and was a 

_ never happier than when bearing witness of it, except, indeed, in a 
those blessed moments when receiving it of the Father. In con- _ 
sequence of this opening of his eyes the youth recoiled with dis- 
may from the sacrilegious mockery of which he had been guilty _ 
in meditating the presumption of teaching holy things of which ae 
the sole sign that he knew anything was now afforded by this — 
‘same recoil. At last he was not far from the kingdom of heaven, __ 


question. os 
On the morning after the latter of those two sermons, 
Frederick, as they sat at breakfast, succeeded, with no small Bee 
effort, for he feared his mother, in blurting out to his father thes 
request that he might be taken into the counting-house; and — 
when indignantly requested, over the top of the teapot, to eX. am 
plain himself, declared that he found it impossible to give his 
mind to a course of education which could only end in the dis- 
_ appointment of his parents, seeing he was at length satisfiéd that et 
he had no call to the ministry. His father was not displeased ates 
the thought of having him at the shop; but his mother was for 
some moments speechless with angry tribulation. Recovering 
herself, with scornful bitterness she requested to know to what — 
tempter he had been giving ear—for tempted he must have been — ; 
ere son of hers would have been guilty of backsliding from the — 
_ eausé, of taking his hand from the plough and looking behind — 
« = see 


A NEW PUPIZ, ae 


him. The youth returned such answers as, while they satisfied 
his father he was right, served only to convince his mother, 
where yet conviction was hardly needed, that she had to thank 
the dominie for his defection, his apostasy from the church to the 
world. 

Incapable of perceiving that now first there was hope of a 
genuine disciple in the child of her affection, she was filled with 
the gall of disappointment, and with spite against the man who 


‘had taught her son how worse than foolish it is to aspire to teach 


before one has learned; nor did she fail to cast scathing reflec- 
tions on her husband, in that he had brought home a viper in 
his bosom, a wolf into his fold, the wretched minion of a worldly 
church to lead her son away captive at his will; and partly no 
doubt from his last uncomfortable sermons, but mainly from the 
play of Mrs Marshal’s tongue on her husband’s tympanum, the 
deacons in full conclave agreed that no further renewal of the 
invitation to preach “for them” should be made to the school- 
master—just the end of the business Mr Graham had expected, 
and for which he had provided. On Tuesday morning he smiled 
to himself, and wondered whether, if he were to preach in his 
own schoolroom the next Sunday evening, anyone would come to 
hear him. On Saturday he received a cool letter of thanks for 
his services, written by the ironmonger in the name of the 
deacons, enclosing a cheque, tolerably liberal as ideas went, in 
acknowledgment of them. ‘The cheque Mr Graham returned, 
saying that, as he was not a preacher by profession, he had no 
right to take fees.. It was a half-holiday: he walked up to 
Hampstead Heath, and was paid for everything, in sky and 
cloud, fresh air, and a glorious sunset. 

When the end of her troubled week came, and the Sunday of 
her expectation brought lovely weather, with a certain vague sus- 
picion of peace, into the regions of Mayfair and Spitalfields, 
Clementina walked across the Regent’s Park to Hope Chapel, 
and its morning observances; but thought herself poorly repaid 
for her exertions by having to listen to a dreadful sermon and 
worse prayers from Mr Masquar— one of the chief priests of 
Commonplace—a comfortable idol to serve, seeing he accepts as 
homage to himself all that any man offers to his own person, 
opinions, or history. But Clementina contrived to endure it, 


comforting herself that she had made a mistake in supposing Mr ~ 


Graham preached in the morning. 

In the evening her carriage once again drew up with clang and 
clatter at the door of the chapel. But her coachman was out of 
temper at having to leave the bosom of his family circle—as he 


a 


*r Of a Bindsy, and sought relief to his feelings in giving his horses ‘ 
a lesson in crawling; the result of which® was fortunate for hiss 
- - mistress: when she entered, the obnoxious Mr Masquar was 
already reading the hymn. She turned at once and ne for a 
the door. @ 
But her carriage was already gone. A strange sense of lonieli a4 
ness and desolation seized her. The place had grown hateful to 
her, and she would have fled from it. Yet she lingered in the — 
porch. ‘The eyes of the man in the pulpit, with his face of false 
solemnity and low importance—she seemed to feel the look of 
them on her back, yet she lingered. Now that Malcolm was | 
gone, how was she to learn when Mr Graham would bom - 
preaching ? 
“Tf you please, ma’am,” said a humble and dejected voice. 
_ ~~ She turned and saw the seamed and smoky face of the fe 
opener, who had been watching her from the lobby, and had 
crept out after her. She dropped a courtesy, and went on 
hurriedly, with an anxious look now and then over her 
shoulder— * a 
“Oh, ma’am ! we shan’t see 477 no more. Our people here— ‘= 
‘they’re very good people, but they don’t like to be told the truth. — 
It seems to me as if they knowed it so well they thought as how | 
there was no need for them to mind it.” oo 
“You don’t mean that Mr Graham has given up preaching a 
here P” “ 
. “'They’ve given up astin’ of ’im to preach, lady. But if ever 
_ there was a good man in that pulpit, Mr Graham he do be theta 
fer mant” 
“Do you know where he lives ?” 
slic “Yes, ma’am ; but it would be hard to direct you.” Here Be 
looked in at the door of the chapel with a curious half-frightened - 
glance, as if to satisfy herself that the inner door was closed, » 
“But,” she went on, “they won’t miss me now the service is 
eg begun, and I can be back before it’s over. I'll show you whee 4 


= maa.’ ba 

x *‘T should be greatly obliged to you,’ ’ said Clementina, “ ‘only a ia 
I am sorry to give you the trouble.” i: 

es “To tell the truth, ?m only too glad to get away,” she re- 

turned, “ for the place it do look like a cementery, now “e's out 

eee. ~ Ol it.” 

Bn. “‘ Was he so kind to you ?” a 

ee ‘He never spoke word to me, as to myself like, no, nor never — 


e ie eave me sixpence, like Mr Masquar do; but he ever me Bee 


A NEW PUPIL. — 249 


in my heart to bear up, and that’s better than meat or 
money.” 

It was a good half-hour’s walk, and during it Clementina held 
what conversation she might with her companion. It was not 
much the woman had to say of a general sort. She knew little 
beyond her own troubles and the help that met them, but what 
else are the two main forces whose composition results in upward 
motion? Her world was very limited—the houses in which she 
went charing, the chapel she swept and dusted, the neighbours 
with whom she gossipped, the little shops where she bought the 
barest needs of her bare life ; but it was at least large enough to 
leave behind her ; and if she was not one to take the kingdom 
of heaven by force, she was yet one to créep quietly into it. The 
earthly life of such as she—immeasurably less sordid than that 
of the poet who will not work for his daily bread, or that of the 
speculator who, having settled money on his wife, risks that of 
his neighbour—passing away like a cloud, will hang in their west, 
stained indeed, but with gold, blotted, but with roses. Dull as 
it all was now, Clementina yet gained from her unfoldings a new 
out-look upon life, its needs, its sorrows, its consolations, and its 
hopes; nor was there any vulgar pity in the smile of the one, or 
of degrading acknowledgment in the tears of the other, when a 
piece of gold passed from hand to hand, as they parted. 

The Sunday-sealed door of the stationer’s shop—for there was 
no private entrance to the house—was opened by another sad- 
faced woman. What a place to seek the secret of life in! Love- 
lily enfolds the husk its kernel ; but what the human eye turns 
from as squalid and unclean may enfold the seed that clasps, 
couched in infinite withdrawment, the vital germ of all that is 
lovely and graceful, harmonious and strong, all without which no 

_ poet would sing, no martyr burn, no king rule in righteousness, 
no geometrician pore over the marvellous must. 

The woman led her through the counter into a little dingy 
room behind the shop, looking out on a yard a few feet square, 
with a water-butt, half-a-dozen flower-pots, and a maimed plaster 
Cupid perched on the window-sill. There sat the schoolmaster, 
in conversation with a lady, whom the woman of the house, 
awed by her sternness and grandeur, had, out of regard to her 
lodger’s feelings, shown into her parlour and not into his bed- 
room. 

Cherishing the hope that the patent consequences of his line 
of action might have already taught him moderation, Mrs 
Marshal, instead of going to chapel to hear Mr Masquar, had 
paid Mr Graham a visit, with the object of enlisting his sym- 


: pathies if she Could, at all events bis services, in tie combating — : 
perties of the water-butt, to reveal Mrs Marshal flushed and — 
one of the congregation the last Sunday evening. Evidently one | a 


of Mr Graham’s party, she was not prejudiced in her favour. 
But there was that in her manner which impressed her--thaem S "3 


wave of her hand. “I believe I have had the pleasure of seeing — 


_ timidity to Mr Graham. “ That I did not find you there, sir, 2 


of the scruples he had himself ar oused in the bosom of her son. 


What had passed between. them I do not care to record, but — Z ; 


when Lady Clementina—unannounced of the landlady—entered, 
there was light enough, notwithstanding the non-reflective pros 


flashing, Mr Graham grave and luminous, and to enable the 
chapel-business-eye of Mrs Marshal, which saw every stranger | 
that entered “ Hope,” at once to recognise her as having made 93 


something ethereal and indescribable which she herself was con- 
stantly aping, and, almost involuntarily, she took upon herself 
such honours as the place, despicable in her eyes, would admit — : 
of. She rose, made a sweeping courtesy, and addressed Lady 
Clementina with such a manner as people of Mrs Marshal's — ie 
ambitions put off and on like their clothes. di : 

“Pray, take a seat, ma’am, such as it is,” she said, with a e 


you at our place.” 
Lady Clementina sat down: the room was too small to stand 
in, and Mrs Marshal seemed to take the half of it. ee 
“T am not aware of the honour,” she returned, doubtful 
what the woman meant—perhaps some shop or dress-maker’ S. Be 
Clementina was not one who delighted in freezing her humbler _ 
fellow-creatures, as we know; but there was something altogether © a 
repulsive in the would-be-grand but really arrogant behaviour of SS 
her fellow-visitor. i E. 
“‘T mean,” said Mrs Marshal, a little abashed, for ambition is 
not strength, “at our little Bethel in Kentish Town! Not that — 
we live there!” she explained with a superior smile. = Fe 
“Oh! I think I understand. You must mean the chapel 
where this gentleman was preaching. 2 
“That zs my meaning,” assented Mrs Marshal. 


_ “T went there. to- night, ” said Clementina, turning with some 


’ ee * 
' a 
on 


ve 


will, I hope, explain ” Here she paused, and turned again | - 

to Mrs Marshal. “I see you think with me, ma’am, that a ies 

teacher is worth following.” 
As she said this she turned once more to Mr Graben who | 

sat listening with a queer, amused, but right courteous smile. il 4 % 
“T hope you will pardon me,” ‘she continued, “ for venturin 

to call upon you, and, as I have the misfortune to find yous 


4 NEW PUPIL, ast 


occupied, allow me to call another day. If you would set me a 
time, I should be more obliged than I can tell you,” she con- 
cluded, her voice trembling a jittle. 

“Stay now, if you will, iiadanks returned the schoolmaster, 
with a bow of oldest-fashioned courtesy. “This lady has done 
laying her commands upon me, I believe.” 

“‘ As you think proper to call them commands, Mr Graham, I 
_ conclude you intend to obey them,” said Mrs Marshal, with a 
forced smile and an attempt at pleasantry. 

“Not for the world, madam,” he answered. “Your son is 
acting the part of a gentleman—yes, I make bold to say, of one 
who is very nigh the kingdom of heaven, if not indeed within its 
gate, and before I would check him I would be burnt at the 
stake—even were your displeasure the fire, madam,” he added, 
with a kindly bow. “ Your son is a fine fellow.” 

“He would be, if he were left to himself. Good evening, Mr 
Graham. Good- -bye, rather, for I ¢izxk we are not likely to meet 
again.” 

“In heaven, I hope, madam; for by that time we shall be . 
able to understand each other, ” said the schoolmaster, still 
kindly. 

Mrs Marshal made no answer beyond a facial flash as she 
turned to Clementina. 

“Good evening, ma’am,” she said. “To pay court to the 
earthen vessel because of the treasure it may happen to hold, is 
to be a respecter of persons as bad as any.” 

An answering flash broke from Clementina’s blue orbs, but 
her speech was more than calm as she returned, 

““T learned something of that lesson last Sunday evening, I 
hope, ma’am. But you have left me far behind, for you seem to 
have learned disrespect even to the worthiest of persons. Good 
evening, ma’am.” 

She looked the angry matron full in the face, with an icy 
regard, from which, as from the Gorgon eye, she fled. 

The victor turned to the schoolmaster. 

“TY beg your pardon, sir,” she said, “for presuming to take 
your part, but a gentleman is helpless with a vulgar woman.” 

“JT thank you, madam. I hope the sharpness of your rebuke 
but indeed the poor woman can hardly help her rudeness, 
for she is very worldly, and believes herself very pious. It is the 
old story—hard for the rich.” 

Clementina was struck. 

“T too am rich and worldly,” she said. “ But I know that I 
am not pious, and if you would but satisfy me that religion is 


common sense, I would try to be naan with all my heart a an 
Psoul,” 

“T willingly undertake the task. But let us know each othe 
a little first. And lest I should afterwards seem to have taken 
an advantage of you, I hope you have no wish to be nameless to — 
‘me, for my friend Malcolm MacPhail had so described you that RK 
I recognized your ladyship at once.’ : 

Clementina said that, on the contrary, ae had given hee ~ 
hame to the woman who ‘opened the door. - . 

“It is because of what Malcolm said of you that I ventured to 
come to you,” she added. - = 

“ave you seen Malcolm lately?” he asked, his brow cloud. a 
ing a little. ‘It is more than a week since he has been to mer 
ae Thereupon, with embarrassment, such as she would never have — 
felt except in the presence of pure simplicity, she told of his ag 
a disappearance with his mistress. me 
And you think they have run away together?” said the ee 
schoolmaster, his face beaming with what, to Clementina’s sur-— =. 
i. .- prise, looked almost like. merriment. aa 
se? “Yes, I think so,” she answered. “Why not, if they choose: ae 

“ T will say this for my friend Malcolm,” returned Mr Graham 
-composedly, “that whatever he did I should expect to find not 
only all right in intention, but prudent and well-devised also. — 2 
~The present may well seem a rash, ill-considered affair for both” 

of them, but oils 

: “JT see no necessity either for explanation or excuse,” a ae 

_ Clementina, too eager to mark that she interrupted Mr Graham. __ 
“Jn making up her mind to marry him, Lady Lossie has shown 
greater wisdom and courage than, I confess, I had given her 

credit for.” 

“And Malcolm?” rejoined the schoolmaster softly. “ Should a 
<you say of him that he showed equal wisdom?” 

“T decline to give an opinion upon the gentleman’s part in 
__the business,” answered Clementina, laughing, but glad there 

__-was so little light in the room, for she was painfully conscious of 
the burning of her cheeks. ‘Besides, I have no measure to a 
apply to Malcolm,” she went on, a little hurriedly. “Heislike 
“no one else I have ever talked with, and I confess there is some- — a 
thing about him I cannot understand. Indeed, he is beyond me 
altogether.” 

“ Perhaps, having known him from infancy, I might be able - = 
to explain him,” returned Mr Graham, in a tone that invited 
questioning. =. 
“Perhaps, then,” said Clementina, “I may be permitted, _ in 


xe 


- ie ea 


A NEW PUPIL. NQRS 


jealousy for the teaching I have received of him, to confess my 
bewilderment that one so young should be capable of dealing 
with such things as he delights in. The youth of the prophet 
makes me doubt his prophecy.” 

“ At least,” rejoined Mr Graham, “the phenomenon coincides 
with what the master of these things said of them—that they 
were revealed to babes and not to the wise and prudent. As to 


_Malcolm’s wonderful facility in giving them form and utterance, 


that depends so immediately on the clear sight of thera, that, 
granted a little of the gift poetic, developed through reading and 
talk, we need not wonder much at it.” 

“You consider your friend a genius?” suggested Clementina. 

“JT consider him possessed of a kind of heavenly common 
sense, equally at home in the truths of divine relation, and the 
facts of the human struggle with nature and her forces. I should’ 
never have discovered my own ignorance in certain points of the 
mathematics but for the questions that boy put to me before he 
was twelve years of age. A thing not understood lay in his 
mind like a fretting foreign body. But there is a far more 
important factor concerned than this exceptional degree of in- 
sight. Understanding is the reward of obedience. Peter says 
‘the Holy Ghost, whom God hath given them that odey him,’ 
Obedience is the key to every door. I am perplexed at the 
stupidity of the ordinary religious being. In the most practical 
of all matters, he will talk, and speculate, and try to feel, but he 
will not set himself to do. It is different with Malcolm. From 
the first he has been trying to obey. Nor do I see why it 
should be strange that even a child should understand these 
things, if they are the very elements of the region for which we 
were created and to which our being holds essential relations, as a 
bird to the air, or a fish to the sea. If aman may not understand 
the things of God whence he came, what shall he understand ?” 

“ How, then, is it that so few do understand P” 

‘“* Because where they know, so few obey. This boy, I say, 
did. If you had seen, as I have, the almost superhuman 
struggles of his will to master the fierce temper his ancestors 
gave him, you would marvel less at what he has so early become. 
I have seen him, white with passion, cast himself on his face on 
the shore, and cling with his hands to the earth as if in a 
paroxysm of bodily suffering ; then after a few moments rise and 
do a service to the man who had wronged him. Were it any 
wonder if the light should have soon gone up in a soul like that ? 
When I was a younger man I used to go out with the fishing. 
boats now and then, drawn chiefly by my love for the boy, who 


ne 
Pais. 
~*~ 
> 


« eae 5 oS SE 
2 mz AEP (th ts Rha 
Bape Neeetad o ee eres ba a gee 
264 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE, 


earned his own bread that way before he was in his teens. One mi na 
night we were caught in a terrible storm, and had to stand outa 
to sea in the pitch dark. He was then not fourteen. ‘ Can you 
_ let a boy like that steer?’ I said to the captain of the boat. 
‘Yes; just a boy like that,’ he answered. ‘Ma’colm ‘ill steer as" E | 
 straucht’s a porpus.’ When he was relieved, he crept overthe __ 
thwarts to where I sat. ‘J/s there any true definition of a 
oe straight line, sir?’ he said. ‘I can’t take the one in my Euclid.’ — % 
- ~—*So you're not afraid, Malcolm?” I returned, heedless of his — = 
eas question, for I wanted to see what he would answer. ‘ Afraid, 
_ sir!’ he rejoined with some surprise, ‘I wad ill like to hear thea 
+ Lord say, O thou o’ little faith !’—‘ But,’ I persisted, ‘God may 
-. mean to drown you! !’—‘ An’ what for no?? he returned. ‘ Gien ’ 
__ ye war to tell me ’at I micht be droon’t ohn him meant it, I wad 
be fleyt eneuch.’ I see your ladyship does not understand : Ls 
__-will interpret the dark saying: ‘And why should he not drown 
me? If you were to tell me I might be drowned without his - a 
meaning it, I should be frightened enough.’ Believe me, my _ 
__~ lady, the right way is simple | to find, though only they that seek — 
eee it frst can find it. But I have allowed myself,” concluded the 
a schoolmaster, ‘ to be carried adrift in my laudation of Malcolm, Ry Si 
You did not come to hear praises of him, my lady.” aa 
.. “T owe him much,” said Clementina. “—But tell me then, 
Mr Graham, how is it ‘that you know there is a God, and one— 
- one—fit to be trusted as you trust him?” cai 
i “Tn no way that I can bring to bear on the reason of another ce, 
so as to produce conviction.” 
“Then what is to become of me?” ape 
“JT can do for you what is far better. I can persuade you to ay: 
- look and see whether before your own door stands not a gate 
_ lies not a path to walk in. Entering by that gate, walking in- 
that path, you shall yourself arrive at the conviction, which no | 
man can give you, that there is a living Love and Truth at the — 
es) heart of your being, and pervading all that surrounds you. The | a 
man who seeks the truth in any other manner will never find it. 4 
Listen to me a moment, my lady. I loved that boy’s mother. a 
| Naturally she did not love me—how could she? I was very 
unhappy. I sought comfort from the unknown source of my — 
life. He gave me to understand his Son, and so I understood _ 
himself, knew that I came of God, and was comforted.” 
“But how do you know that it was not alla delusion—the _ 


i product of your own fervid imagination? Do not mistake me: - 
I want to find it true.” ig 
-—s- * ‘It is a right and honest question, my lady. I will tell yom Ny 
K- - ” 
es eS 

ce 


A NEW PUPIL. 255 


Not to mention the conviction which a truth beheld must carry 
with itself, and concerning which there can be no argument 
either with him who does or him who does not see it, this 
experience goes far with me, and would with you if you had it, 
as you may—namely, that all my difficulties and confusions have 
gone on clearing themselves up ever since I set out to walk in 
that way. My consciousness of life is threefold what it was ; my 
‘perception of what is lovely around me, and my delight in it, 
threefold ; my power of understanding things and of ordering my 
way, threefold also; the same with my hope and my courage, my 
love to my kind, my power of forgiveness. In short, I cannot 
but believe that my whole being and its whole world are in 
process of rectification for me. Is not that something to set 
against the doubt born of the eye and ear, and the questions of 
an intellect that can neither grasp nor disprove? I say nothing 
of better things still. To the man who receives such as I mean, 
they are the heart of life; to the man who does not, they exist 
not. But I say—if I thus find my whole being enlightened and 
redeemed, and know that therein I fare according to the word of 
the man of whom the old story tells: if I find that his word, and 
the result of action founded upon that word, correspond and 
agree, opening a heaven within and beyond me, in which I see 
myself delivered from all that now in myself is to myself despic- 
able and unlovely ; if I can reasonably—reasonably to myself, 
not to another—cherish hopes of a glory of conscious being, 
divinely better than all my imagination when most daring could 
invent—a glory springing from absolute unity with my creator, 
and therefore with my neighbour ; if the Lord of the ancient tale, 
I say, has thus held word with me, am I likely to doubt much or 
long whether there be such a lord or no?” 

“What, then, is the way that lies before my own door? Help 
me to see it.” 

“Tt is just the old way—as old as the conscience—that of ~ 
obedience to any and every law of personal duty. But if you 
have ever seen the Lord, if only from afar—if you have any 
vaguest suspicion that the Jew Jesus, who professed to have come 
from God, was a better man than other men, one of your first 
duties must be to open your ears to his words, and-see whether 
they commend themselves to you as true; then, if they do, to 
obey them with your whole strength and might, upheld by the 
hope of the vision promised in them to the obedient. This is 
the way of life, which will lead a man out of the miseries of the 
nineteenth century, as it led Paul out of the miseries of the first.” 

There followed a little pause, and then a long talk about what 


256 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


the schoolmaster had called the old story; in which he spoke 
with such fervid delight of this and that point in the tale; 
removing this and that stumbling-block by giving the true reading 
or the right interpretation; showing the what and why and how 
—the very intent of our Lord in the thing he said or did, that, 
for the first time in her life, Clementina began to feel as if such 
a man must really have lived, that his blessed feet must really 
have walked over the acres of Palestine, that his human heart 
must indeed have thought and felt, worshipped and borne, right 
humanly. Even in the presence of ‘her new teacher, and with 
his words in her ears, she began to desire her own chamber that 
she might sit down with the neglected story and read for herself. 
The schoolmaster walked with her to the chapel door. ‘There 
her carriage was already waiting. He put her in, and, while the 
Reverend Jacob Masquar was still holding forth upon the differ- 
ence between adoption and justification, Clementina drove away, 
never more to delight the hearts of the deacons with the noise of 
the hoofs of her horses, staying the wheels of her yellow chariot. 


CHAPTER Ti V~ 
THE FEY FACTOR. 


WHEN Mr Crathie heard of the outrage the people of Scaurnose 
had committed upon the surveyors, he vowed he would empty 
every house in the place at Michaelmas. His wife warned him 
that such a wholesale proceeding must put him in the wrong 
with the country, seeing they could not a have been guilty. 
He replied it would be impossible, the rascals hung so together, 
to find out the ringleaders even. She returned that they all 
deserved it, and that a correct discrimination was of no con. 
Sequence; it would be enough to the purpose if he made a 
difference. People would then say he had done his best to 
distinguish. The factor was persuaded and made out a list of 
those who were to leave, in which he took care to include all the 
principal men, to whom he gave warning forthwith to quit their 
houses at Michaelmas. I do not know whether the notice was 
in law sufficient, but exception was not taken on that score. 
Scaurnose, on the receipt of the papers, all at the same time, 
by the hand of the bellman of Portlossie, was like a hive about 
to swarm. Endless and complicated were the comings and 


oe ae f - 


> Fae 
» Fe 


od iadig Rg RR peta New Scenes aes 


“THE FEY FACTOR. — 2t9 


goings between the houses, the dialogues, confabulations, and 
consultations, in the one street and its many closes. In the 
middle of it, in front of the little public-house, stood, all that day 
and the next, a group of men and women, for no five minutes in | 
its component parts the same, but, like a cloud, ever slow- 
dissolving, and as continuously re-forming, some dropping away, 
others falling to. Such nid-nodding, such uplifting and fanning 


_ of palms among the women, such semirevolving side-shakes of 


the head, such demonstration of fists, and such cursing among 
the men, had never before been seen and heard in Scaurnose. 
The result was a conclusion. to make common cause with the 
first victim of the factor’s tyranny, namely Blue Peter, whose 
expulsion would arrive three months before theirs, and was 
unquestionably head and front of the same cruel scheme for 
putting down the fisher-folk altogether. 

Three of them, therefore, repaired to Joseph’s house, com- 
missioned with the following proposal and condition of compact: 
that Joseph should defy the notice given him to quit, they 
pledging themselves that he should not be expelled. Whether 
he agreed or not, they were equally determined, they said, when 
their turn came, to defend the village; but if he would cast in 
his lot with them, they would, in defending him, gain the advan- 
tage of having the question settled three months sooner for 
themselves. Blue Peter sought to dissuade them, specially 
insisting on the danger of bloodshed. They laughed: They 
had anticipated objection, but being of the youngest and roughest 
in the place, the idea of a scrimmage was, neither in itself nor in 
its probable consequences, at all repulsive to them. They 
answered that a little blood-letting would do nobody any harm, 
neither would there be much of that, for they scorned to use any 
weapon sharper than their fists or a good thick ruzg.: the women 
and children would take stones of course. Nobody would be 
killed, but every meddlesome authority taught to let Scaurnose 
and fishers alone. Peter objected that their enemies could easily 
starve them out. Dubs rejoined that, if they took care to keep 
the sea-door open, their friends at Portlossie would not let them 
starve. Grosert said he made no doubt the factor would have 
the Seaton to fight as well as Scaurnose, for they must see plainly 
enough that their turn would come next. Joseph said the factor 
would apply to the magistrates, and they would call out the militia. 

An’ we'll call out Buckie,” answered Dubs. 

“Man,” said Fite Folp, the eldest of the three, “the haill 
shore, frae the Biough to Fort George, ’ll be up in a jiffie, an’ a’ 
the cuintry, frae John o’ Groat’s to Berwick, ‘ill hear hoo the 

R 


“THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


el rm 


_ fisher-fowk ’s misguidit; an’ at last it'll come to the king, an’ 
syne we'll get oor richts, for he’ll no stan’ to see’t, an’ maitters 11 
_sune be set upon a better futtin’ for puir fowk ’at has no freen’ 
_but God an’ the sea.” | a 
The greatness of the result represented laid hold of Peters 
imagination, and the resistance to injustice necessary to reachit _ 
_ stirred the old tar in him. When they took their leave, he 
walked halfway up the street with them, and then returned to. 
tell his wife what they had been saying, all the way murmuring __ 
to himself as he went, “The Lord is a man of war.” And ever 
as he said the words, he saw as in a vision the great man-of-war 
in which he had served, sweeping across the bows of a French- 
man, and raking him, gun after gun, from stem to stern. Nor 
did the warlike mood abate until he reached home and looked 
his wife in the eyes. He told her all, ending with the half _ 
repudiatory, half-tentative words. 
“'That’s what they say, ye see, Annie.” 
“And what say ye, Joseph?” returned his wife. 
“Ow! I’m no sayin’,” he answered. : 
_ “What are ye thinkin’ than, Joseph?” she pursued. “Ye ~ 
canna say ye’re no thinkin’.” 
“Na; [Pll no say that, lass,” he replied, but said no more. : 
“Weel, gien ye winna say,” resumed Annie, “I wull; an’ my 
say is, ’at it luiks to me unco like takin’ things intil yer ain han’.” _ 
_ “An’ whase han’ sud we tak them intil but oor ain?” said 
Peter, with a falseness which in another would have roused his 
_ righteous indignation. ae 
“That’s no the pint. It’s whase han’ ye’re takin’ them oot 
o’,” returned she, and spoke with solemnity and significance. 
Peter made no answer, but the words Vengeance is mine began 
_to ring in his mental ears instead of Zhe Lord ts a man of war. 
_ Before Mr Graham left them, and while Peter’s soul: was 
_ flourishing, he would have simply said that it was their part to 
_ endure, and leave the rest to the God of the sparrows. But now 
the words of men whose judgment had no weight with him, 
threw him back upon the instinct of self-defence—driven from a8 
which by the words of his wife, he betook himself, not alas! to 
_ the protection, but to the vengeance of the Lord! a 
The next day he told the three commissioners that he was 
_ sorry to disappoint them, but he could not make common cause _ 
_ with them, for he could not see it his duty to resist, much as it 
_ would gratify the natural man. They must therefore excuse him  _ 
if he left Scaurnose at the time appointed. He hoped he should 
_ leave friends behind him. ) | ey 


2 


THE WANDERER. 259 


They listened respectfully, showed no offence, and did not. 
even attempt to argue the matter with him. But certain looks 
passed between them. 

After this Blue Peter was a little happier in his mind, and 
went more briskly about his affairs, 


GHAPTER “LY. 
THE WANDERER. 


It was a lovely summer evening, and the sun, going down just 
beyond the point of the Scaurnose, shone straight upon the 
Partan’s door. That it was closed in such weather had a 
significance—general as well as individual. Doors were oftener 
closed in the Seaton now. ‘The spiritual atmosphere of the 
place was less clear and open than hitherto. The behaviour of 
the factor, the trouble of their neighbours, the conviction that 
the man who depopulated Scaurnose would at least raise the 
rents upon them, had brought a cloud over the feelings and 
prospects of its inhabitants—which their special quarrel with the 
oppressor for Malcolm’s sake, had drawn deeper around the Find- 
lays; and hence it was that the setting sun shone upon the closed 
door of their cottage. 

But a shadow darkened it, cutting off the level stream of rosy 
red. An aged man, in Highland garments, stood and knocked. 
His overworn dress looked fresher and brighter in the fnendly 
rays, but they shone very yellow on the bare hollows of his old 
knees. It was Duncan MacPhail, the supposed grandfather of 
Malcolm. He was older and feebler, I had almost said blinder, — 
but that could not be, certainly shabbier than ever. ‘The glitter 
of dirk and broadsword at his sides, and the many-coloured — 
ribbons adorning the old bagpipes under his arms, somehow en- 
hanced the look of more than autumnal, of wintry desolation in 
his appearance. Before he left the Seaton, the staff he carried 
was for show rather than use, but now he was bent over it, as if 
but for it he would fall into his grave. His knock was feeble 
and doubtful, as if unsure of a welcoming response. He was 
broken, sad, and uncomforted. 

A moment passed. The door was unlatched, and within 
stood the Partaness, wiping her hands in her apron, and looking 


thunderous. But when she saw who it was, her countenance ~ 


and manner changed utterly. 


260 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


“ Preserve’s a’! Ye’re a sicht for sair e’en, Maister Mac- 
Phail!” she cried, holding out her hand, which the blind man 
took as if he saw as well as she. ‘‘ Come awa’ but the hoose. 
Wow! but ye’re walcome.” 

“She thanks your own self, Mistress Partan,” said Duncan, as 
he followed her in; ‘and her heart will pe thanking you for ta 
coot welcome ; and it will pe a long time since she'll saw you 
howefer.” : 

“Noo, noo!” exclaimed Meg, stopping in the middle of her 
little kitchen, as she was getting a chair for the old man, and 
turning upon him to revive on the first possible chance what had 
been a standing quarrel between them, ‘‘ what caz be the rizon ’at 
gars ane like you, ’at never saw man or wuman i’ yer lang life, 
the verra meenute ye open yer mou’, say it’s lang sin’ ye saw me. 
A mensefw’ body like you, Maister MacPhail, sud speyk mair to 
the p’int.” 

“‘Ton’t you'll pe preaking her heart with ta one hand while 
youll pe clapping her head with ta other,” said the piper. 
“'Ton’t be taking her into your house to pe telling her she can’t 
see. Is it that old Tuncan is not a man as much as any woman 


|? 


in ta world, tat you'll pe telling her she can’t see? I tell you 


she cau See, and more tan you'll pe think. And I will tell it to 
you, tere iss a pape in this house, and tere was pe none when 
Tuncan she'll co away.” 

“We a’ ken ye ha’e the second sicht,” said Mrs Findlay, who 
had not expected such a reply; “ an’ it was only o’ the first I 
spak. Haith! it wad be ill set o’ me to anger ye the moment ye 
come back to yer ain. Sit ye doon there by the chimla-neuk, 
till I mask ye a dish 0’ tay. Or maybe ye wad prefar a drap 0’ 
parritch an’ milk? It’s no muckle I ha’e to offer ye, but ye 
cudna be mair walcome.” 

As easily appeased as irritated, the old man.sat down with a 
grateful, placid look, and while the tea was drawing, Mrs Find- 
lay, by judicious questions, gathered from him the history of his 
adventures. 

Unable to rise above the disappointment and chagrin of find- 
ing that the boy he loved as his own soul, and had brought up 
as his own son was actually the child of a Campbell woman, one 
of the race to which belonged the murderer of his people in 
Glencoe, and which therefore he hated with an absolute passion 
of hatred, unable also to endure the terrible schism in his being 
occasioned by the conflict between horror at the Campbell blood, 
and ineffaceable affection for the youth in whose veins it ran, 
and who so fully deserved all the love he had lavished upon him, 


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THE WANDERER. 261 


he had concluded to rid himself of all the associations of place 
and people and event now grown so painful, to make his way 
back to his native Glencoe, and there endure his humiliation as 
best he might, beheld of the mountains which had beheld the 
ruin of his race. He would end the few and miserable days of 
his pilgrimage amid the rushing of the old torrents, and the call- 
ing of the old winds about the crags and precipices that had 
hung over his darksome yet blessed childhood. These were still 
his friends. But he had not gone many days’ journey before a 
farmer found him on the road insensible, and took him home. 
As he recovered, his longing after his boy Malcolm grew, until it 
rose to agony, but he fought with his heart, and believed he had 
overcome it. The boy was a good boy, he said to himself; the 
boy had been to him as the son of his own heart ; there was no 
fault to find with him or in him; he was as brave as he was 
kind, as sincere as he was clever, as strong as he was gentle ; he 
could play on the bagpipes, and very nearly talk Gaelic ; but his 
mother was a Campbell, and for that there was no help. To be 
on loving terms with one in whose veins ran a single drop of the 
black pollution was a thing no MacDhonuill must dream of 
He had lived a man of honour, and he would die a man of 
honour, hating the Campbells to their last generation. How 
should the bard of his clan ever talk to his own soul if he knew 
himself false to the name of his fathers! Hard fate for him! As 
if it were not enough that he had been doomed to save and rear 
a child of the brood abominable, he was yet further doomed, worst 
fate of all, to love the evil thing! he could not tear the lovely 
youth from his heart. But he could go further and further from 
him. 

As soon as he was able, he resumed his journey westward, and 
at length reached his native glen, the wildest spot in all the 
island. ‘There he found indeed the rush of the torrents and the 
call of the winds unchanged, but when his soul cried out in its 
agonies, they went on with the same song that had soothed his 
childhood; for the heart of the suffermg man they had no 
response. Days passed before he came upon a creature who 
remembered him ; for more than twenty years were gone, and a 
new generation had come up since he forsook the glen. Worst 
of all, the clan-spirit was dying out, the family type of govern- 
ment all but extinct, the patriarchal vanishing in a low form of 
the feudal, itself already in abject decay. The hour of the Celt 
was gone by, and the long-wandering raven, returning at last, 
found the ark it had left afloat on the waters dry and deserted 
and rotting to dust. There was not even a cottage in which he 


ao leave behind her. He returned to Mistress Partan white and ; 


ee rE MARQUIS: OF LOSSIE, 


7 playing his pipes, and everywhere hospitably treated; but at 
length his heart could endure its hunger no more: he must seevag a 


factor.” Her sympathy was enthusiastic, for they shared a 2 
- common wrath. And now came the tale of the factor’s cruelty a 


she had hidden it. But not the less heartily did she insist on — 


gould hide his head. The one he i forsaken when 7 erie ae xy 
crime drove him out, had fallen to ruins, and now there was | 


a 


nothing of it left but its foundations. The people of the inn at 


> the mouth of the valley did their best for him, but he learned Oa < 


accident that they had Campbell connections, and, rising i 
instant, walked from it for ever. He wandered about for a time, 


his ‘boy, or die. He walked therefore straight to the cottage of 
his quarrelsome but true friend, Mrs Partan—to learn that his — e 
benefactor, the marquis, was dead, and Malcolm gone. But re: 
Here alone could he hope ever to see him again, and the same 
night he sought his cottage in the grounds of Lossie House, © a . 
never doubting his right to re-occupy it. But the door was 
locked, and he could find no entrance. He went to the House, a 
and there was referred to the factor. But when he knocked at 
his door, and requested the key of the cottage, Mr Crathie, who 
was in the middle of his third tumbler, came raging out of his 
dining-room, cursed him for an. old Highland goat, and heaped | a ; 
insults on him and his grandson indiscriminately. It was well he a 
kept the door between ‘him and the old man, for otherwise he ah 
would never have finished the said third tumbler. That door F . 
carried in it thenceforth the marks of every weapon that Duncan — 
bore, and indeed the half of his sgian dhu was the next morning a 
found sticking in it, like the sting which the bee is doomed to 


trembling, in a mountainous rage with “ta low-pred hount of a = 


to the fishers, his hatred of Malcolm, and his general wildness of | 
behaviout. The piper vowed to shed the last drop of his blood — 
in defence of his Mistress Partan. But when, to strengthen the 
force of his asseveration, he drew the dangerous- looking dirk ss 


_ from its sheath, she threw herself upon him, wrenched it from 4 


sas 


his hand, and testified that ‘ fules sudna hae chappin’-sticks, na 
yet teylors guns.” It was days before Duncan discovered where — 


his taking up his abode with her; and the very next day he os 
sumed his old profession of lamp- cleaner to the community. 4 

When Miss Horn heard that he had come and where he was, 
old feud with Meg Partan rendering it imprudent to call upon 
him, she watched for him in the street, and welcomed him home, _ 
assuring him that, if ever he should wish to change his quarters pe 
her house was at his service. . as 


- momen i Part, x 364 eae gy alee: eo nm Pp ee nag Oa aale ae | bt Sari coche oP gee ee SPAT aie et a Pie ea Mle 


ai aa Sas ere vay | Se 
Pi tae Abe fe * 


MID-OCEAN. 263 


“T’m nae Cam’ell, ye ken, Duncan,” she concluded, ‘an’ what 
an auld wuman like mysel’ can du to mak ye coamfortable sall no 
fail, an’ that I promise ye.” 

The old man thanked her with the perfect courtesy of the Celt, 
confessed that he was not altogether at ease where he was, but 
said he must not hurt the feelings of Mistress Partan, “ for she'll 
not pe a paad womans,” he added, ‘but her house will pe aalways 
in ta flames, howefer.” 

So he remained where he was, and the general heart of the 
Seaton was not a little revived by the return of one whose pre- 
sence reminded them of a better time, when no such cloud as 
now threatened them heaved its ragged sides above their 
horizon. 

The factor was foolish enough to attempt inducing Meg to send 
her guest away. 

“We want no landloupin’ knaves, old or young, about Lossie,” 
he said. “If the place is no keepit dacent, we'll never get the 
young marchioness to come neatr’s again.” 

“Deed, factor,” returned Meg, enhancing the force of her 
utterance by a composure marvellous from it’s rarity, “the first 
thing to mak’ the place—I’ll no say dacent, sae lang there’s sae 
mony claverin’ wives in’t, but mair dacent nor it has been for the 
last ten year, wad be to sen’ factors back whaur they cam’ frae.” 

“ And whaur may that be?” asked Mr Crathie. 

“That’s mair nor I richtly can say,” answered Meg Partan, 
“Dut auld-farand fouk threepit it was somewhaur ’ithin the swing 
o’ Sawtan’s tail.” 


The reply on the factor’s lips as he left the house, tended to 
justify the rude sarcasm. 


CHAPTER LVI. 
MID-OCEAN. 


THERE came a breath of something in the east. It was neither 
wind nor warmth. It was light before it is light to the eyes of 
men. Slowly and slowly it grew, until, like the dawning soul in 
the face of one who lies in a faint, the life of light came back to 
the world, and at last the whole huge hollow hemisphere of rush- 
ing sea and cloud- flecked sky lay like a great empty heart, wait- 
ing, in conscious glory of the light, for the central glory, the 
coming lord of day. And in the whole crystaline hollow, gleaming 


ee, 2a “THE MARQUIS ¢ OF LOSSIE. ae 
and flowing with delight, yet waiting for more, the Patche was 
the only lonely life-bearing thing—the one cloudy germ-spot afloat — 
-_ in the bosom of the great roc-egg of sea and sky, whose sheltering — 
nest was the universe with its walls of flame. 
Florimel woke, rose, went on deck, and for a moment was fresh ‘” 
born. It was a fore-scent—even this could not be called a fore- 
taste, of the kingdom of heaven; but Florimel never thought of * 
the kingdom of heaven, the ideal of her own existence. She ‘could - 
a however half appreciate this earthly outbreak of its glory, this im- 
a carnation of truth invisible. Round her, like a thousand doves, _ 
__ clamoured with greeting wings the joyous sea-wind. Up camea 
thousand dancing billows, to shout their good morning. Like a — 
petted animal, importunate for play, the breeze tossed her hair — 
and dragged at her fluttering garments, then rushed in the Psyche’s 
sails, swelled them yet deeper, and sent her dancing over the 
dancers. The sun peered up hke a mother waking and looking : 
- out on her frolicking children. Black shadows fell from sail to — 
: sail, slipping and shifting, and one long shadow of the Psyche E 
herself shot over the world to the very gates of the west, but held —_ 
her not, for she danced and leaned and flew as if she had but ~ . 
just begun her corantolavolta fresh with the morning, and had — 
not been dancing all the livelong night over the same floor. 
Lively as any new-born butterfly, not like a butterfly’s, flitting and — 
_ howering, was her flight, for still, like one that longed, she ae 
and strained and flew. The joy ‘of bare life swelled in Florimel’s _ 4 . 
bosom. She looked up, she looked around, she breathed deep. — 
The cloudy anger that had rushed upon her like a watching tiger Be 
the moment she waked, fell back, and left her soul a clear mirror 
to reflect God’s dream of a world. She turned, and saw Malcolm ee : 
at the tiller, and the cloudy wrath sprang upon her. He stood ~ 
composed and clear and cool as the morning, without sign of 
doubt or conscience of wrong, now peeping into the binnacle, 
now glancing at the sunny sails, where swayed across and back 
the dark shadows of the rigging, as the cutter leaned and rose, — a 
like a child running and staggering over the sped tos and © 
—_ unstable hillocks. She turned from him. 
as - “Good morning, my lady! What a good morning it is!” “As 
in all his address to his mistress, the freedom of the words did 
not infect the tone; that was resonant of essential honour. 
“Strange to think,” he went on, “that the sun himself there is _ 
only a great fire, and knows nothing about it! There must be a 4 
sun to that sun, or the whole thing is a vain show. There must 
i de one to whom each is itself, yet the all makes a whole—one — | 
as who is at once both centre and circumference to all. +: 


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MID-OCEAN. “2660 


Floximel cast on him a scornful look. For not merely was he 
talking his usual unintelligible rubbish of poetry, but he had the 
impertinence to speak as if he had done nothing amiss, and she 
had no ground for being offended with him. She made him no 
answer. A cloud came over Malcolm’s face ; and until she went 
again below, he gave his attention to his steering. 

In the meantime Rose, who happily had turned out as good a 
_ sailor as her new mistress, had tidied the little cabin; and Florimel 
found, if not quite such a sumptuous breakfast laid as at Portland. 
Place, yet a far better appetite than usual to meet what there 
was; and when she had finished, her temper was better, and she 
was inclined to think less indignantly of Malcolm’s share in caus- 
ing her so great a pleasure. She was not yet quite spoiled. She 
was still such a lover of the visible world and of personal freedom, 
that the thought of returning to London and its leaden-footed 
hours, would now have been unendurable. At this moment she 
could have imagined no better thing than thus to go tearing 
through the water—home to her home. For although she had 
spent little of her life at Lossie House, she could not but prefer 
it unspeakably to the schools in which she had passed almost the 
whole of the preceding portion of it. There was little or nothing 
in the affair she could have wished otherwise except its origin. 
She was mischievous enough to enjoy even the thought of the con- 
sternation it would cause at Portland Place. She did not realize 
all its awkwardness. A letter to Lady Bellair when she reached 
home would, she said to herself, set everything right; and if 
Malcolm had now repented and put about, she would instantly 
have ordered him to hold on for Lossie. But it was mortifying 
_ that she should have come at the will of Malcolm, and not by 

her own—worse than mortifying that perhaps she would have to 

say so. If she were going to say so, she must turn him away as ~ 
soon as she arrived. There was no help for it. She dared not 
keep him after that in the face of society. But she might take - 
the bold, and perhaps a little dangerous measure of adopting the 
flight as altogether her own madcap idea. Her thoughts went 
floundering in the bog of expediency, until she was tired, and 
declined from thought to reverie. Then dawning out of the 
dreamland of her past, appeared the image of Lenorme. Pure 
pleasure, glorious delight, such as she now felt, could not long 
possess her mind, without raising in its charmed circle the vision 
of the only man except her father whom she had ever—something 
like loved. Her behaviour to him had not yet roused in her 
shame or sorrow or sense of wrong. She had driven him from 
her; she was ashamed of her relation to him; she had caused 


266 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE, — 


him bitter suffering; she had all but promised to marry another 
man ; yet she had not the slightest wish for that man’s company 
there and then: with no one of her acquaintaince but Lenorme 
could she have shared this conscious splendour of life. ‘ Would 
to God he had been born a gentleman instead of a painter !” she 
said to herself, when her imagination had brought him from the 


past, and set him in the midst of the present. ‘ Rank,” she said, 


“Tam above caring about. In that he might be ever so far my 
inferior, and welcome, if only he had been of a good family, a 
gentleman born!” She was generosity, magnanimity itself, in 
her own eyes! Yet he was of far better family than she knew, 
for she had never taken the trouble to inquire into his history. 
And now she was so much easier in her mind since she had so 
cruelly broken with him, that she felt positively virtuous because 
she had done it, and he was not at that moment by her side. 
And yet if he had that moment stepped from behind the main- 
sail, she would in all probability have.thrown herself into his 
arms. 

The day passed on: Florimel grew tired and went to sleep; 
woke and had her dinner; took a volume of the ‘‘ Arabian Nights,” 
and read herself again to sleep ; woke again; went on deck; saw 
the sun growing weary in the west. And still the unwearied 
wind blew, and still the Psyche danced on, as unwearied as the 
wind. 

The sun-set was rather an assumption than a decease, a recep- 
tion of him out of their sight into an eternity of gold and crimson; 
and when he was gone, and the gorgeous bliss had withered into 
a dove-hued grief, then the cool, soft twilight, thoughtful of the 
past and its love, crept out of the western caves over the breast 
of the water, and filled the dome and made of itself a great lens 
royal, through which the stars and their motions were visible ; 


and the ghost of Aurora with both hands lifted her shroud above. 


her head and made a dawn for the moon on the verge of the 
watery horizon—a dawn as of the past, the hour of inverted hope. 
Not a word all day had been uttered between Malcolm and his 
mistress: when the moon appeared, with the waves sweeping up 
against her face, he approached Florimel where she sat in the 
stern. Davy was steering. 

“Will your ladyship come forward and see how the Psyche 
goes?” he said. “At the stern, you can see only the passive 
part of her motion. It is quite another thing to see the will of 
her at work in the bows.” 


At first she was going to refuse ; but she changed her mind, or 


her mind changed her: she was not much more of a living and © 


Loa 
‘. 


MID-OCEAN,. 267 


acting creature yet than the Psyche herself. She said nothing, 
but rose, and permitted Malcolm to help her forward. 

It was the moon’s turn now to be level with the water, and 
as Florimel stood on the larboard side, leaning over and gazing 
down, she saw her shine through the little feather of spray the 
cutwater sent curling up before it, and turn it into pearls and 
semiopals. 

“She’s got a bone in her mouth, you see, my lady,” said old 


’ ‘Travers. 


“Go aft till I call you, Travers,” said Malcolm. 

Rose was in Florimel’s cabin, and they were now quite 
alone. 

‘My lady,” said Malcolm, “I can’t bear to have you angry 
with me.” 

“Then you ought not to deserve it,” returned Florimel. 

“ My lady, if you knew all, you would not say I deserved it.” 

“Tell me all then, and let me judge.” 

*T cannot tell you all yet, but I will tell you something which 
may perhaps incline you to feel merciful. Did your ladyship 
ever think what could make me so much attached to your 
father?” 

““No indeed. I never saw anything peculiar in it. Even 
now-a-days there are servants to be found who love their 
masters. It seems to me natural enough. Besides he was 
very kind to you.” 

“Tt was natural indeed, my lady—more natural than you 
think. Kind to me he was, and that was natural too.” 

“Natural to him, no doubt, for he was kind to every- 
body.” 

“My grandfather told you something of my early history— 
did he not my lady ?” 

** Ves—at least I think I remember his doing so.” 

“Will you recall it, and see whether it suggests nothing.” 

But Florimel could remember nothing in particular, she said. 
She had in truth, for as much as she was interested at the time, 
forgotten almost everything of the story. 

“T really cannot think what you mean,” she added. “If you 
are going to be mysterious, I shall resume my place by the 
tiller. ‘Travers is deaf, and Davy is dumb: I prefer either.” 

“ My lady,” said Malcolm, “ your father knew my mother, and 
persuaded her that he loved her.” . 

Florimel drew herself up, and would have looked him to 
ashes if wrath could burn. Malcolm saw he must come to the 


point at once or the parley would cease, 


268 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTIE. 


“My lady,” he said, ‘‘ your father was my father too. Tama 
son of the Marquis of Lossie, and your BENS es ladyship’s 
half-brother, that is.” 

She looked a little stunned. The gleam died out of her eyes, 
and the glow out of her cheek. She turned and leaned over the 
bulwark. He said no more, but stood. watching her. She 
raised herself suddenly, looked at fy and said, 

“Do I understand you! Pa 

“I am your brother,” Malcolm repented. 

She made a step forward, and held out her hand. He took 
the little thing in his great grasp tenderly. Her lip trembled, 
She gazed at him for an instant, full in the face, with a womanly, 
believing expression. 

“ My poor Malcolm !” she said, “I am sorry for you.” 


She withdrew her hand, and again leaned over the bulwark. 


Her heart was softened towards her groom-brother, and for a 
moment it. seemed to her that some wrong had been done. 
Why should the one be a marchioness and the other a groom? 
Then came the thought that now all was explained. Every 
peculiarity of the young man, every gift extraordinary of body, 
mind, or spirit, his strength, his beauty, his courage, and 
honesty, his simplicity, nobleness, and affection, yes, even what 
in jim was mere doggedness and presumption, all, everything 


explained itself to Florimel in the fact that the incomprehensible 


fisherman-groom, that talked like a parson, was the son of her 
father. She never thought of the woman that was his mother, and 
what share she might happen to have in: the phenomenon— 
thought only of her father, and a little pitifully of the halfhonour 
and more than half-disgrace infolding the very existence of her 
attendant. As usual her thoughts were confused. The one 
moment the poor fellow seemed to exist only on sufferance, 
having no right to be there at all, for as fine a fellow as he was ; 
the next she thought how immeasurably he was indebted to the 


family of the Colonsays. Then arose the remembrance of his | 


arrogance and presumption in assuming on such a ground some- 
thing more than guardianship—absolute tyranny over her, and 
with the thought pride and injury at once got the upper hand. 
Was she to be dictated to by a low-born, low-bred fellow like that— 
a fellow whose hands were harder than any leather, not with 
doing things for his amusement but actually with earning his 
daily bread—one that used to smell so of fish—on the ground of 
right too—and such a right as ought to exclude him for ever 
from her presence !—She turned to him again. 

“How long have you known this —this—painful—indeed | 


MID-OCEAN. 36g" 


must confess to finding it an awkward and embarrassing fact? I 
presume you do know it?” she said, coldly and searchingly. 

“My father confessed it on his death-bed.” 

“‘Confessed !” echoed Florimel’s pride, but she restrained her 
tongue. 

“Tt explains much,” she said, with a sort of judicial relief. 
“There has been a great change upon you since then. Mind I 

- only say explaims. It could never justify such behaviour as yours 
—no, not if you had been my true brother. There is some excuse, 
I daresay, to be made for your ignorance and inexperience. No 
doubt the discovery turned your head. Still I am at a loss to 
understand how you could imagine that sort of—of—that sort of 
thing gave you any right over me!” 

“Love has its rights, my lady,” said Malcolm. 

Again her eyes flashed and her cheek flushed. “I cannot — 
permit you to talk sotome. You must not fancy such things are 
looked upon in our position with the same indifference as in 
yours. You must not flatter yourself that you can be allowed to 
cherish the same feelings towards me as if—as if—you were 
really my brother. I am sorry for you, Malcolm, as I said 
already ; but you have altogether missed your mark if you think 
that can alter facts, or shelter you from the consequences of 
presumption.” 

Again she turned away. Malcolm’s heart was sore for her. 
How grievously she had sunk from the Lady Florimel of the 
old days! It was all from being so constantly with that 
wretched woman and her vile nephew. Had he been able to 
foresee such a rapid declension, he would have taken her away 
long ago, and let come of her feelings what might. He had 
been too careful over them. 

“Indeed,” Florimel resumed, but this time without turning 
towards him, “I do not see how things can possibly, after what 

' you have told me, remain as they are. I should not feel at all 
comfortable in having one about me who would be constantly 
supposing he had rights, and reflecting on my father for fancied 
injustice, and whom I fear nothing could prevent from taking 
liberties. It is very awkward indeed, Malcolm—very awkward ! 
But it is your own fault that you are so changed, and I must say 
I should not have expected it of you. I should have thought 
you had more good sense and regard for me. If I were to tell 
the wewld why I wanted to keep you, people would but shrug 
their shoulders and tell me to get rid of you; and if I said 
nothing, there would always be something coming up that 
required explanation. Besides, you would for ever be trying to 


270 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


convert me to one or other of your foolish notions. I hardly 


know what to do. I will consult—my friends on the subject. 
And yet I would rather they knew nothing of it. My father you 
see ” She paused. “If you had been my real brother it 
would have been. different.” 

“Tam your real brother, my lady, and I have tried to behave 
like one ever since I knew it.” | 

“Ves; you have been troublesome. I have always under- 
stood that brothers were troublesome. I am told they are given 
to taking upon them the charge of their sisters conduct. But I 
would not have even you think me heartless. If you had been 
a real brother, of course I should have treated you differently.” 


“J don't doubt it, my lady, for everything would have been ~ 


different then. I should have been the Marquis of Lossie, and 
you would have been Lady Florimel Colonsay. But it would 


have made little difference in one thing: I could not have loved © 


you better than I do now—if only you would believe it, my lady!” 

The emotion of Malcolm, evident in his voice as he said this, 
seemed to touch her a little. 

“J believe it, my poor Malcolm,” she returned, “ quite as 
much as I want, or as it is pleasant to believe it. I think you 
would do a great deal for me, Malcolm. . But then you are so 
rude! take things into your hands, and do things for me I don’t 
want done! You we// judge, not only for yourself, but for me! 
How caz a man of your training and position judge for a lady of 
mine! Don’t you see the absurdity of it? At times it has been 
very awkward indeed. Perhaps when I am married it might be 
arranged ; but I don’t know.” Here Malcolm ground his teeth, 
but was otherwise irresponsive as block of stone. ‘‘ How would 


a gamekeeper’s place suit you. That is a half-gentlemanly kind ~ 


of post. I will speak to the factor, and see what can be done.— 
But on the whole I ¢4zzk, Malcolm, it will be better you should go. 
Iam very sorry. I wish you had not told me. It is very pain- 
fulto me. You shozzld not have told me. ‘These things are not 
intended to be talked of.—Suppose you were to marry—say fe 
She stopped abruptly, and it was well both for herself and 
Malcolm that she caught back the name that was on her lips. 
The poor girl must not be judged as if she had been more 
than a girl, or other than one with every disadvantage of evil 
training. Had she been four or five years older, she might have 
been a good deal worse, and have seemed better, for she would 


have kept much of what she had now said to herself, and would — 


perhaps have treated her brother more kindly while she cared 
even less for him. 


Ss nh eae Rea 
7 hier. gaits 
* sae ms Bo ee ta 2 


MID-OCEAN. | 271 


“What will you do with Kelpie, my lady?” asked Malcolm 
quietly. 

“There it is, you see!” she returned. ‘‘Soawkward! If you 
had not told me, things could have gone on as before, and for 
your sake I could have pretended I came this voyage of my own 
will and pleasure. Now, I don’t know what I can do—except 
indeed you—let me see—if you were to hold your tongue, and 
tell nobody what you have just told me—I don’t know but you 
might stay till you got her so far trained that another man could 
manage her. I might even beable to ride her myself—Will you 
promise ?” 

*‘{ will promise not to let the fact come out so long as] am ~ 
in your service, my lady.” 

“¢ After all that has passed, I think you might promise me a 
little more! But I will not press it.” 

“May I ask what it is, my lady?” 

“T am not going to press it, for I do not choose to make ¢ a 
favour of it. Still, I do not see that it would be such a mighty 
favour to ask—of one who owes respect at least to the house of 
Lossie. But I will not ask. I will only suggest, Malcolm, that 
you should leave this part of the country—say this country 
altogether, and go to America, or New South Wales, or the Cape 
of Good Hope. If you will take the hint, and promise never to 
speak a word of this unfortunate—yes, I must be honest, and 
allow there is a sort of relationship between us ; but if you will keep 
it secret, I will take care that something is done for you—some- 
thing, I mean, more than you could have any right to expect. 
And mind, I am not asking you to conceal anything that could 
reflect honour upon you or dishonour upon us.” 

“ T cannot, my lady.” 

*“T scarcely thought you would. Only you hold such grand 
ideas about self-denial, that I thought it might be agreeable to’ 
you to have an opportunity of exercising the virtue at a small — 
expense and a great advantage.” 

Malcolm was miserable. Who could have dreamed to find in 
her such a woman of the world! He must break off the hope- 
less interview. 

“Then, my lady,” he said, “I suppose I am to give my chief 
attention to Kelpie, and things are to be as they have been.” 

“For the present. And as to this last piece of presumption, 
I will so far forgive you as to take the proceeding on myself— 
mainly because it would have been my very choice had you 
submitted it to me. There is nothing I should have preferred 
to a sea-voyage and returning to Lossie at this time of the year. 


. ee 


272 _ THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


But you also must be silent on your insufferable share in the 


business. And for the other matter, the least arrogance or 
assumption I shall consider to absolve me at once from all 
obligation towards you of any sort. Such relationships are ever 
acknowledged.” 

“Thank you—-sister,” said Malcolm—a last forlorn experi- 
ment ; and as he said the word he looked lovingly in her eyes. 

She drew herself up like the princess Lucifera, “with loftie 
eyes, halfe loth to looke so lowe,” and said, cold as ice, 

“Tf once I hear that word on your lips again, as between you 
and me, Malcolm, I shall that very moment discharge you from 


my service, as for a misdemeanour. You have zo claim upon ~ 


me, and the world will not blame me.” 

“Certainly not, my lady. I beg your pardon. But there is 
one who perhaps will blame you a little.” 

“T know what you mean; but I don’t pretend to any of your 
religious motives. When I do, then you may bring them to 
bear upon me.” 

“Twas not so foolish as you think me, my lady. I merely 
imagined you might be as far on as a Chinaman,” said Malcolm, 
with a poor attempt at a smile. 

“What insolence do you intend now?” 

“The Chinese, my lady, pay the highest respect to their 
departed parents. When I said there was one who would blame 
you a little, I meant your father.” 

He touched his cap, and withdrew. 

“Send Rose to me,” Florimel called after him, and presently 
- with her went down to the cabin. 

And still the Psyche soul-like flew. Her earthly birth held 
her to the earth, but the ocean upbore her, and the breath of 


God drove her on. Little thought Florimel to what she hurried 


her! A queen in her own self-sufficiency and condescension, 
she could not suspect how little of real queendom, noble and 
self-sustaining, there was in her being; for not a soul of man or 
woman whose every atom leans not upon its father-fact in God, 


can sustain itself when the outer wall of things begins to tumble 


towards the centre, crushing it in on every side. 
During the voyage no further allusion was made by either to 
what had passed. By the next morning Florimel had yet again 


recovered her temper, and, nothing fresh occurring to irritate 


her, kept it and was kind. 
Malcolm was only too glad to accept whatever parings of 
heart she might offer. 
By the time their flight was over, Florimel almost felt as if it 


THE SHORE. 273 


had indeed been undertaken at her own desire and motion, and 
was quite prepared to assert that such was the fact. 


CHAPTER LVIL. 
THE SHORE. 


Ir was two days after the longest day of the year, when there is 
no night in those regions, only a long twilight, in which many 
dream and do not know it. ‘There had been a week of variable 
weather, with sudden changes of wind to east and north, and 
round again by south to west, and then there had been a calm 
for several days. But now the little wind there was blew from 
the north-east; and the fervour of June was rendered more 
deiicious by the films of flavouring cold that floated through the 
mass of heat. All Portlossie more and less, the Seaton especi- 
ally, was in a state of excitement, for its little neighbour, Scaur- 
nose, was more excited still. There the man most threatened, 
and with greatest injustice, was the only one calm amongst the 
men, and amongst the women his wife was the only one that 
was calmer than he. Blue Peter was resolved to. abide the 
stroke of wrong, and not resist the powers that were, believing 
them in some true sense, which he found it hard to understand 
when he thought of the factor as the individual instance, 
ordained of God. He had a dim perception too that it was 
better that one, that one he, should suffer, than that order 
should be destroyed and law defied. Suffering, he might still in 
patience possess his soul, and all be well with him; but what 
would become of the country if everyone wronged were to take 
the law into his own hands? Thousands more would be wronged 
by the lawless in a week than by unjust powers in a year. But 
the young men were determined to pursue their plan of resist- 
ance, and those of the older and soberer who saw the uselessness 
of it, gave themselves little trouble to change the minds of the 
rest. Peter, although he knew they were not for peace, neither 
inquired what their purpose might be, nor allowed any conjecture 
or suspicion concerning it to influence him in his preparations 
for departure. Not that he had found anew home. Indeed he 
had not heartily set about searching for one; in part because, 
unconsciously to himself, he was buoyed up by the hope he 
read so clear in the face of his more trusting wife—that Malcolm 
S 


274 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


would come to deliver them. His plan was to leave her and 
his children with certain friends at Port Gordon; he would not 
hear of going to the Partans to bring them into trouble. He 
would himself set out immediately after for the Lewis fishing. 

Few had gone to the Hebrides that year from Scaurnose or 
Portlossie. The magnitude of the évents that were about to 
take place, yet more the excitement and interest they occasioned, 
kept the most of the men at home—to content themselves with 
fishing the waters of the Moray Frith. And they had notable 
success. But what was success with such a tyrant over them as 
the factor, threatening to harry their nests, and turn the sea- 
birds and their young out of their heritage of rock-and sand and 
shingle? They could not keep house on the waves, any more 
than the gulls! Those who still held their religious assemblies 
in the cave called the Baillies’ Barn, met often, read and sang 
the comminatory psalms more than any others, and prayed much 
against the wiles and force of their enemies both temporal and 
spiritual; while Mr Crathie went every Sunday to Church, grew 
redder in the nose, and hotter in the temper. 


Miss Horn was growing more and more uncomfortable con-_ 


cerning events, and dissatisfied with Malcolm. She had not for 
some time heard from him, and here was his most important 
duty unattended to—she would not yet say neglected—the well- 
being of his tenantry, namely, left in the hands of an unsym- 
pathetic, self-important underling, who was fast losing all the 
good sense he had once possessed! Was the life and history of 
all these brave fishermen and their wives and children to be 
postponed to the pampered feelings of one girl, and that because 
she was what she had no right to be, his half-sister forsooth ? 
said Miss Horn to herself—that bosom friend to whom some 
people, and those not the worst, say oftener what they do not 
mean than what they do. She had written to him within the 
last month a very hot letter indeed, which had afforded no end 
of amusement to Mrs Catanach, as she sat in his old lodging 
over the curiosity shop, but, I need hardly say, had not reached 
Malcolm: and now there was but one night, and the best of all 
the fisher-families would have nowhere to lie down! Miss Horn, 
with Joseph Mair, thought she did well to be angry with 
Malcolm. . 

The blind piper had been very restless all day. Questioned 
again and again by Meg Partan as to what was amiss with him, 
he had always returned her odd and evasive answers. Every 
few minutes he got up—even from cleaning her lamp—to go to 
the shore. He had but to cross the threshold, and take a few 


| 


iat 4 


in 3 a4e | . 
a s, oa a 14 al 
ASO RORE rs ent 


Behe 
ahi cl: aig BE 


pe 


Sars 
5, 


eee 


4 
ok, 


we 


sigt, « 


ye 
she ae ye 


THE SHORE. 275 


Steps through the close, to reach the road that ran along the sea- 
front of the village: on the one side were the cottages, scattered 
and huddled, on the other the shore and ocean wide outstretched. — 
He would walk straight across this road until he felt the sand 
under his feet; there stand for a few moments facing the sea, 
and, with nostrils distended, breathing deep breaths of the air 
from the north-east ; then turn and walk back to Meg Partan’s 
- kitchen, to resume his ministration of light. These his sallies 
were so frequent, and his absences so short, that a more serene 
temper than hers might have been fretted by them. But there 
was something about his look and behaviour that, while it 
perplexed, restrained her; and instead of breaking out upon 
him, she eyed him curiously. She had found that it would not 
do to stare at him. The instant she began to do so, he began 
to fidget, and turned his back to her. It had made her lose her 
temper for a moment, and declare aloud as her conviction that he 
was aiter all an impostor, and saw as well as any of them. 

“She has told you so, Mistress Partan, one hundred thousand 
times,” replied Duncan with an odd smile: “and perhaps she 
will pe see a little petter as any of you, no matter.” 

Thereupon she murmured to herself, “‘ The cratur ‘ill be seein’ 
something!” and with mingled awe and curiosity sought to lay 
restraint upon her unwelcome observation of him. 

Thus it went on the whole day, and as the evening approached, 
he grew still more excited. The sun went down, and the 
twilight began; and, as the twilight deepened, still his excite- 
ment grew. Straightway it seemed as if the whole Seaton had 
come to share in it. Men and women were all out of doors ; 
and, late as it was when the sun set, to judge by the number of 
red legs and feet that trotted in and out with a little shadowy 
flash, with a dull patter-pat on earthen floor and hard road, and 
a scratching and hustling among the pebbles, there could not 
have been one older than a baby in bed; while of the babies 
even not a few were awake in their mothers’ arms, and out with 
them on the sea front. The men, with their hands in their 
trouser-pockets, were lazily smoking pigtail, in short-clay pipes 
with tin covers fastened to the stems by little chains, and some 
of the women, in short blue petticoats and worsted stockings. 
doing. the same. Some stood in their doors, talking with 
neighbours standing in their doors; but these were mostly the 
elder women: the younger ones—all but Lizzy Findlay—were 
out in the road. One man haif leaned, half sat on the window 
sill of Duncan’s former abode, and round him were two or three 
more, and some women, talking about Scaurnose, and the factor, 


276 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


and what the lads would do to-morrow; while the hush of the 
sea on the pebbles mingled with their talk, like an unknown 
tongue of the infinite—never ariiculating, only suggesting— 
uttering in song and not in speech—dealing not with thoughts, 
but with feelings and foretastes. No one listened : what to them 
was the Infinite with Scaurnose in the near distance! It was 
now almost as dark as it would be throughout the night if it 
kept as clear. 

Once more there was Duncan, standing as if looking out to 
sea, and shading his brows with his hand as if to protect his eyes 
from the glare of the sun, and enable his sight! | 

“There’s the auld piper again!” said one of the group, a 
young woman. “ He’s unco fule like to be stan’in that gait (way), 
makin’ as gien he cudna weel see for the sun in ’s e’en.” 

‘“‘Haud ye yer tongue, lass,” rejoined an elderly woman 
beside her. “ There’s mair things nor ye ken, as the Beuk says, 
There’s een ‘at can see an’ een ’at canna, an’ een ’at can see 
twise ower, an’ een ’at can see steikit what nane can see open.” 

“Ta poat ! ta poat of my chief!” cried the seer. ‘She is 
coming like a tream of ta night, put one tat will not tepart with 
ta morning.” 

He spoke as one suppressing a wild joy. 

“Wha 'll that be, lucky-deddy (gvandfather)?” inquired, in a 
respectful voice, the woman who had last spoken, while those 
within hearing hushed each other and stood in silence. And 
all the time the ghdst of the day was creeping round from west 
to east to put on its resurrection body, and rise new born. It 
gleamed faint like a cold ashy fire in the north. | 

“And who will it pe than her own son, Mistress Reekie?” 
answered the piper, calling her by her husband’s nickname, as 
was usual, but, as was his sole wont, prefixing the title of respect, 
where custom would have employed but her Christian name. 

“Who'll should it pe put her own Malcolm?” he went on. 
“I see his poat come round ta Tead Head. She flits over the 
water like a pale ghost over Morven. But it’s ta young and ta 
strong she is pringing home to Tuncan. Om’anam, beannuich!” 

Involuntarily all eyes turned towards the point called the 
Death’s Head, which bounded the bay on the east. 

“It’s ower dark to see onything,” said the man on the window- 
sill. “ There’s a bit haar (fog) come up.” 

“Yes,” said Duncan, “it'll pe too tark for you who haf cot 
no eyes only to speak of. Put your'll wait a few, and you'll pe 
seeing as well as herself. Och, her poy! her poy! O m’anam! 


Ya Lort pe praised! and she'll tie in peace, for he'll pe only ta — 


cS 


THE SHORE. — 277 


one half of him a Cam’ell, and he'll pe safed at last, as sure 
as there’s a heafen to co to and a hell to co from. For ta half 
tat’s not a Cam’ell must pe ta strong half, and it will trag ta. 
other half into heafen—where it will not pe ta welcome, howefer.” 

As if to get rid of the unpleasant thought that his Malcolm 
could not enter heaven without taking half a Campbell with him, 
he turned from the sea and hurried into the house—but only to 
catch up his pipes and hasten out again, filling the bag as he 
went. Arrived once more on the verge of the sand, he stood 
again facing the north-east, and began to blow a pibroch loud 
and clear. 

Meantime the Partan had joined the same group, and they 
were talking in a low tone about the piper’s claim to the second 
sight, for, although all were more or less inclined to put faith in 
Duncan, there was here no such unquestioning belief in the 
marvel as would have been found on the west coast in every glen 
from the Mull of Cantyre to Loch Eribol—when suddenly Meg 
Partan, almost the only one hitherto remaining in the house, 
appeared rushing from the close. 

‘“‘ Hech, sirs!” she cried, addressing the Seaton in general, 
*‘ sien the auld man be I the richt, 

She'll pe aal in ta right, Mistress Partan, and tat you’ll pe 
seeing,” said Duncan, who, hearing her first cry, had stopped his 
drone, and played softly, listening. 

But Meg went on without heeding him any more than was 
implied in the repetition of her exordium. 

“ Gien the auld man be 7 the richt, it’ll be the marchioness 
hersel’ ’at’s h’ard o’ the ill duin’s o’ her factor, an’s comin’ to see 
efter her fowk! An’ it’ll be Ma’colm’s duin, an’ that'll be seen. 
But the bonny laad winna ken the state o’ the herbour, an’ he’ll 
be makin’ for the moo’ ot, an’ he’ll jist rin ’s bonny boatie agrun’ 
’atween the twa piers, an’ that’ll no be a richt hame-comin’ for the 
ues o’ the lan’, an’ what’s mair, Ma’colm ’ill get the wyte (lame) 

’’t, an’ that'll be seen. Sae ye maun some 0O’ ye to the pier-heid, “4 
an’ luik oot to gie ’im warnin’.” 

Her own husband was the first to start, proud of the foresight 
of his: wife. 

“Haith, Meg!” he cried, “ye’re maist as guid at the lang 
sicht as the piper himsel’ !” 

Several followed him, and as they ran, Meg cried after them, 
giving her orders as if she had been vice-admiral of the red, ina 
voice shrill enough to pierce the worst gale that ever blew on 
northern shore. 

 Ve'll jist tell the bonnie laad to haud wast a bit an’ rin her 


a + re oR; 


,> a det be 2 \ w 
: opis: 


eos ©... THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE, = 


J ; a 7 Meee 
ashore, an’ we'll a’ be there an’ hae her as dry’s Noah’s ark in a 


 jiffie. Tell her leddyship we'll cairry the boat, an’ her intil’t, to 


the tap o’ the Boar’s Tail, gien she’ll gie’s her orders.—Winna — 
we, laads ?” * a 

“We can but try!” said one. ‘‘—Butthe Fisky ‘ill be waur to 
get a grip o’ nor Nancy here,” he added, turning suddenly upon the 
plumpest girl in the place, who stood next to him. She foiled 


_him however of the kiss he had thought to snatch, and turned 


the laugh from herself upon him, so cleverly avoiding his clutch 
that he staggered into the road, and nearly fell upon his nose. 
By the time the Partan and his companions reached the pier- 
head, something was dawning in the vague of sea and sky that 
might be a sloop and standing for the harbour. Thereupon the ~ 
Partan and Jamie Ladle jumped into a small boat and pulled 


out. Dubs, who had come from Scaurnose on the business of the — - 
conjuration, had stepped into the stern, not to steer but to show 


a white ensign-—somebody’s Sunday shirt he had gathered, as 


they ran, from a furze-bush, where it hung to dry, between the — se ~ 


Seaton and the harbour. 
“‘ Hoots ! ye’ll affront the marchioness,” objected the Partan. 
“Man, 7 the gloamin’ she'll no ken ’t frae buntin’,” said Dubs, 
and at once displayed it, holding it by the two sleeves. 
The wind had now fallen to the softest breath, and the little 
vessel came on slowly. The men rowed hard, shouting, and 


_ waving their flag, and soon heard a hail which none of them 


could mistake for other than Malcolm’s. In a few minutes they 


_ were on board, greeting their old friend with jubilation, but 


talking in a subdued tone, for they perceived by Malcolm’s that 
the cutter bore their lady. Briefly the Partan communicated 


~ the state of the harbour, and recommended porting his helm, and 
running the Fisky ashore about opposite the brass swivel. ? 
“‘ A’ the men an’ women 7’ the Seaton,” he said, “’ill be there 


to haul her up.” | 
_ Malcolm took the helm, gave his orders, and steered further 
westward, By this time the people on shore had caught sight 


of the cutter. They saw her come stealing out of the thin 


dark like a thought half thought, and go gliding along 


the shore like a sea-ghost over the dusky water, faint,’ un- 
certain, noiseless, glimmering. It could be no other than the 
Fisky! Both their lady and their friend Malcolm must be on 


board, they were certain, for how could the one of them come 
without the other? and doubtless the marchioness, whom they 
all remembered as a good-humoured handsome young lady, never 


_ shy of speaking to anybody, had come to deliver them from the a 


THE SHORE. 3 279 


hateful red-nosed ogre, her factor! Out at once they all set 
along the shore to greet her arrival, each running regardless of 
the rest, so that from the Seaton to the middle of the Boar’s 
Tail there was a long, straggling broken string of hurrying fisher- 
folk, men and women, old and young, followed by all the 
current children, tapering to one or two toddlers, who felt them- 
selves neglected and wept their way along. The piper, too 
asthmatic to run, but not too asthmatic to walk and play his 


. bagpipes, delighting the heart of Malcolm, who could not mistake 


the style, believed he brought up the rear, but was wrong; for 
the very last came Mrs Findlay and Lizzy, carrying between 
them their little deal kitchen-table, for her ladyship to step out 
of the boat upon, and Lizzy’s child fast asleep on the top of it. 

The foremost ran and ran until they saw that the Psyche had 
chosen her couch, and was turning her head to the shore, when 
they stopped and stood ready with greased planks and ropes to 
draw her up. In a few moments the whole population was 
gathered, darkening, in the June midnight, the yellow sands be- 
tween the tide and dune. ‘The Psyche was well manned now 
with a crew of six. On she came under full sail till within a few: 
yards of the beach, when, in one and the same moment, every 
sheet was let go, and she swept softly up like a summer wave, 
and lay still on the shore. The butterfly was asleep. But ere 
she came to rest, the instant indeed that her canvas went | 
fluttering away, thirty strong men had rushed into the water 
and laid hold of the now broken-winged thing. In a few 
minutes she was high and dry. 

Malcolm leaped on the sand just as the Partaness came 
bustling up with her kitchen-table between her two hands like a 
tray. She set it down, and across it shook hands with him 
violently ; then caught it up and deposited it firm on its four legs 
beneath the cutter’s waist. 3 

“Noo, my leddy,” said Meg, looking up at the marchioness, 
“set ye yer bit fut upo’ my table, an’ we'll think the mair o’t - 
efter whan we tak’ oor denner aff 0’ ’t.” 

Florimel thanked her, stepped lightly upon it, and sprang to 
the sand, where she was received with words of welcome from 
many, and shouts which rendered them inaudible from the rest. 
The men, their bonnets in their hands, and the women courtesy- — 
ing, made a lane for her to pass through, while the young fellows 


would gladly have begged leave to carry her, could they have 


extemporised any suitable sort of palanquin or triumphal litter. 
Followed by Malcolm, she led the way over the Boar’s Tail—- 
nor would accept any help in climbing it—straight for the tunne'. 


y 2 4 ery Ae amt php Sage Sah 


‘eHa THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE, aa 


- Malcolm had never laid aside the key to the private doors his” 
father had given him while he was yet a servant. They crossed 
by the embrasure of the brass swivel. That implement had now — 
long been silent, but they had not gone many paces from the __ 
bottom of the dune when it went off with aroar.. The shouts of 

_.. the people drowned the startled cry with which Florimel, — 
involuntarily mindful of old and for her better times, turned 
~~ to Malcolm. She had not looked for such a reception, and was 
both flattered and touched by it. For a brief space the spirit of 
her girlhood came back. Possibly, had she then understood that 
hope rather than faith or love was at the heart of their enthusiasm, 
that her tenants looked upon her as their saviour from the factor, _ 
and sorely needed the exercise of her sovereignty, she might have __ 
___ better understood her position, and her duty towards them. ek 
Malcolm unlocked the door of the tunnel, and she entered, 
followed by Rose, who felt as if she were walking in a dream. __ 
As he stepped in after them, he was seized from behind, and 
clasped close in an embrace he knew at once. a 
“Daddy, daddy!” he said, and turning threw his arms round 
the piper. é 
“My poy! my poy! Her nain son Malcolm !” cried the old 
man in a whisper of intense satisfaction and suppression. “You'll 
must pe forgifing her for coming pack to you. She cannot help 
lofing you, and you must forget tat you are a Cam’ell.” 
Malcolm kissed his cheek, and said, also in a whisper: is 
“My ain daddy! I hae a heap to tell ye, but I maun see my — 
- leddy hame first.” a 
“Co, co, this moment co,” cried the old man, pushing him 
away. “To your tuties to my leddyship first, and then come to 
Popa, ner-old.daddy.”  . 
__. “J'll be wi’ ye in half an hoor or less.” 
“Coot poy! coot poy! Come to Mistress Partan’s.” mee 
“Ay,ay, daddy!” said Malcolm, and hurried through the tunnel. 
As Florimel approached the ancient dwelling of her race, now 
her own to do with as she would, her pleasure grew. . Whether it 
was the twilight, or the breach in dulling custom, everything 
looked strange, the grounds wider, the trees larger, the house 
_ grander and more anciently venerable. And all the way the burn 
sang in the hollow. The spirit of her father seemed to hover 
_.. about the place, and while the thought that her father’s voice 
- would not greet her when she entered the hall, cast asolemn _ 
funereal state over her simple return, her heart yet swelled with 
satisfaction and far-derived pride. All this was hers to work her 
pleasure with, to confer as she pleased! No thought of her | 


“ 


“aed ae: 


* ae >a ‘ et ee pea c ‘ 
aay ee Ba ee eae. ie ioe Sa 


THE SHORE. 281 
tenants, fishers or farmers, who did their strong part in supporting 
the ancient dignity of her house, had even an associated share in 
the bliss of the moment. She had forgotten her reception already, 
or regarded it only as the natural homage to such a position and 
power as hers. As to owing anything in return, the idea had 
indeed been presented to her when with Clementina and Malcolm 
she talked over “St Ronan’s Well,” but it had never entered her 
mind. 

The drawing-room and the hall were lighted. Mrs Courthope 
was at the door as if she expected her, and Florimel was careful 
to take everything as a matter of course. 


“When will your ladyship please to want me?” asked © 


Malcolm. 
“ At the usual hour, Malcolm,” she answered. 
_ He turned, and ran to the Seaton. 

His first business was the accommodation of Travers and 
Davy, but he found them already housed at the Salmon, with 
Jamie Ladle teaching Travers to drink toddy. They had left 
the Psyche snug: she was high above high-water mark, and there 
were no tramps about; they had furled her sails, locked the 
companion-door, and left her. 

Mrs Findlay rejoiced over Malcolm as if he had been her own 
son from a far country; but the poor piper between politeness 


and gratitude on the one hand, and the urging of his heart on the - 


other, was sorely tried by her loquacity: he could hardly get in 
aword. Malcolm perceived his suffering, and, as soon as seemed 
prudent, proposed that he should walk with him to Miss Horn’s, 
where he was going to sleep, he said, that night. Mrs Partan 
snuffed, but held her peace. For the third or fourth timé that 
day, wonderful to tell, she restrained herself ! 

As soon as they were out of the house, Malcolm assured 
Duncan, to the old man’s great satisfaction, that, had he not 


found him there, he would, within another month, have set out to 


roam Scotland in search of him. 

Miss Horn had heard of their arrival, and was wandering about 
the house, unable even to sit down until she saw the marquis. 
To herself she always called him the marquis; to his face he was 
always Ma’colm. If he had not come, she declared she could not 


have gone to bed—yet she received him with an edge to her 


welcome: he had to answer for his behaviour. They sat down, 


and Duncan told a long sad story ; which finished, with the 


toddy that had sustained him during the telling, the old man 
thought it better, for fear of annoying his Mistress Partan, to go 
home As it was past one o’clock, they both agreed. 


282 THE MARQUIS GF LOSSIE. 


“And if she'll tie to-night, my poy,” said Duncan, “shellpe 


lie awake in her crave all ta long tarkness, to pe waiting to hear 
ta voice of your worrts in ta morning. And nefer you mind, 
Malcolm, she'll has learned to forgife you for peing only ta one 
half of yourself a cursed Cam’ell.” 

Miss Horn gave Malcolm a wink, as much as to say, “ Let the 
old man talk. It will hurt no Campbell,” and showed him out 

with much attention. And then at last Malcolm poured forth his 
_ whole story, and his heart with it, to Miss Horn, who heard and 


received it with understanding, and a sympathy which grew ever 


as she listened. At length she declared herself perfectly satisfied, 
for not only had he done his best, but she did not see what else 
he could have done. She hoped, however, that now he would 


contrive to get this part over as quickly as possible, for which, in © 


the morning, she would, she said, show him cogent reasons. 

“T ha’e no feelin’s mysel’, as ye weel ken, laddie,” she remarked 
in conclusion, “an’ I doobt, gien I had been i’ your place, I wad 
na hae luikit to a’ sides o’ the thing at ance as ye hae dune.— 
An’ it was a man like you ’at sae near lost yer life for the hizzy !” 
she exclaimed. “I maunna think aboot it, or I winna sleep a 
wink, But we maun get that deevil Catanach (an’ cat eneuch!) 
hangt. Weel, my man, ye may haud up yer heid afore the father 
o’ ye, for ye’re the first o’ the race, I’m thinkin’, ’at ever was near- 
han’ deein’ for anither. But mak ye a speedy en’ till ’t noo, laad, 
an’ fa’ to the lave o’ yer wark. ‘There’s a terrible heap to be 
dune. But I maun haud my tongue the nicht, for I wad fain ye 
had a guid sleep, an’ I’m needin’ ane sair mysel’, for I’m no sae 
yoong as I ance was, an’ I ha’e been that anxious aboot ye, 
Ma’colm, ’at though I never hed ony feelin’s, yet, noo ‘at a’’s 
gaein’ richt, an’ ye’re a’ richt, and like to be richt for ever mair, 
my heid’s just like to split. Gang yer wa’s to yer bed, and soon 
may ye sleep. It’s the bed yer bonny mither got a soon’ sleep in 
at last, and muckle was she 7?’ the need o’’t! An’ jist tak tent 


the morn what ye say whan Jean’s i’ the room, or maybe o’ the _ 


ither side o’ the door, for she’s no mowse. 1 dinna ken what 
_ gars me keep the jaud. I believe ’at gien the verra deevil 
himsel’ had been wi’ me sae lang, I wadna ha’e the hert to turn 
him aboot his ill business. That’s what comes o’ haein’ no 
feelin’s. Ither fowk wad ha’e gotten rid o’ her half a score o’ 
years sin’ syne.” 


Pe Ree ee rk Pe Welt ee 92, 3 Nog * 
en ee é 
THE TRENCH. 283 


CHAPTER LVIII. 
THE TRENCH. 


Matcorm had not yet, after all the health-giving of the voyage, 
entirely recovered from the effects of the ill-compounded potion. 
‘Indeed, sometimes the fear crossed his mind that never would he 
be the same man again, that the slow furnace of the grave alone 
would destroy the vile deposit left in his house of life. Hence it 
came that he was weary, and overslept himself the next day—but 
it was no great matter; he had yet time enough. He swallowed 
his breakfast as a working man alone can, and set out for Duff 
Harbour. At Leith, where they had put in for provisions, he had 
posted a letter to Mr Soutar, directing him to have Kelpie brought 
on to his own town, whence he would fetch her himself. The 
distance was about ten miles, the hour eight, and he was a good- 
enough walker, although boats and horses had combined to 
prevent him, he confessed, from getting over-fond of Shanks’ mare. 
To men who delight in the motions of a horse under them, the 
legs of a man are a tame, dull means of progression, although 
they too have their superiorities ; and one of the disciplines ot 
this world is to have to get out of the saddle and walk afoot. 
He who can do so with perfect serenity, must very nearly have 
learned with St Paul in whatsoever state he is therein to be 
content. It was the loveliest of mornings, however, to be abroad 
-in upon any terms, and Malcolm hardly needed the resources of 
one who knew both how to be abased and how to abound— 
enviable perfection—for the enjoyment of even a long walk. 
Heaven and earth were just settling to the work of the day after 
their morning prayer, and the whole face of things yet wore some- 
thing of that look of expectation which one who mingled the 
vision of the poet with the faith of the Christian might well 
imagine to be their upward look of hope after a night of groaning 
and travailing—the earnest gaze of the creature waiting for the 

manifestation of the sons of God; and for himself, though the 
hardest thing was yet to came, there was a satisfaction i in finding 
himself almost up to his last fence, with the heavy ploughed land 
through which he had been floundering nearly all behind him— 
which figure means that he had almost made up his mind what 
to do. 

When he reached the Duff Arms, he walked straight into the 
yard, where the first thing he saw was a stable boy in the air, 
hanging on to a twitch on the nose of the rearing Kelpie. In 


284 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSTE. 


another instant he would have been killed or maimed for life, and 
Kelpie loose, and scouring the streets of Duff Harbour. When 
she heard Malcolm’s voice and the sound of his running feet, she 
stopped as if to listen. He flung the boy aside and caught her 
halter. Once or twice more she reared, in the vain hope of so 
ridding herself of the pain that clung to her hip and nose, nor 
did she, through the mist of her anger and suffering, quite 
recognize her master in his yacht uniform. But the torture 
decreasing, she grew able to scent his presence, welcomed him 
with her usual glad whinny, and allowed him to do with her as 
he would. 


Having fed her, found Mr Soutar, and arranged several 


matters with him, he set out for home. 

That was a ride! Kelpie was mad with life. Every available 
field he jumped her into, and she tore its element of space 
at least to shreds with her spurning hoofs. But the distance was 
not great enough to quiet her before they got to hard turnpike and 
young plantations. He would have entered at the grand gate, 
but found no one at the lodge, for the factor, to save a little, had 
dismissed the old keeper. He had therefore to go on, and 
through the town, where, to the awe-stricken eyes of the population 
peeping from doors and windows, it seemed as if the terrible 
horse would carry him right over the roofs of the fisher cottages 
below, and out to sea. “Eh, but he’s a terrible cratur that 
Ma’colm MacPhail!” said the old wives to each other, for they 
felt there must be something wicked in him to ride like that. 
But he turned her aside from the steep hill, and passed along the 
street that led to the town-gate of the House.—Whom should he 
see, as he turned into it, but Mrs Catanach !—standing on her 
own doorstep, opposite the descent to the Seaton, shading her eyes 
with her hand, and looking far out over the water through the 
green smoke of the village below. As long as he could remember 
her, it had been her wont to gaze thus; though what she could 
at such times be looking for, except it were the SSeS: in person, 
he found it hard to conjecture. 

At the sound of his approach she turned; and such an expression 
crossed her face in a momentary flash ere she disappeared in the 
house, as added considerably to his knowledge of fallen humanity. 
Before he reached her door she was out again, tying on a clean 
white apron as she came, and smiling like a dark pool in sunshine. 
She dropped him a low courtesy, and looked as if she had been 
occupying her house for months of his absence. But Malcolm 
would not meet even cunning with its own weapons, and therefore 
turned away his head, and took no notice of her. She ground 


THE TRENCH. — 985 


her teeth with the fury of hate, and swore that she would yet dis- 
appoint him of his purpose, whatever it were, in this masquerade 


_of service. Her heart being scarcely of the calibre to comprehend 


one like Malcolm’s, her theories for the interpretation of the 
mystery were somewhat wild, and altogether of a character unfit 
to see the light. | 

The keeper of the town-gate greeted Malcolm, as he let him in, 
with a pleased old face and words of welcome ; but added 


3 instantly, as if it was no time for the indulgence of friendship, 


that it was a terrible business going on at the Nose. 

““ What is it?” asked Malcolm, in alarm. 

“Ye ha’e been ower lang awa’, I doobt,” answered the man, © 
‘to ken hoo the factor But, Lord save ye! haud yer tongue,” 
he interjected, looking fearfully around him.  “ Gient-he kenned 
’at I said sic a thing, he wad turn me oot o’ hoose an’ ha’.” 

“You've said nothing yet,” rejoined Malcolm. 

“J said factor, an’ that same ’s ’maist eneuch, for he’s like a 
roarin’ lion an’ a ragin’ bear amang the people, an’ that sin’ ever 
ye gaed. Bowo’ Meal said i’ the meetin’ the ither nicht ’at he 


bude to be the verra man, the wickit ruler propheseed o’ sae lang © | 


sin’ syne 7 the beuk o’ the Proverbs. Eh! it’s an awfw’ thing to 
be foreordeent to oonrichteousness !” 

“* But you haven’t told me what is the matter at Scaurnose,” said 
Malcolm impatiently. 
“Ow, it’s jist this—at this same’s midsimmer-day, an’ Blew | 
Peter, honest fallow! he’s been for the last three month un’er 

nottice frae the factor to quit. An’ sae, ye see, ‘ 

“To quit!” exclaimed Malcolm. “Sic a thing was never 
h’ard tell o’ !” 

“Haith! it’s h’ard tell o’ noo,’ returned the gatekeeper. 
“ Quittin’ ’s as plenty as quicken hae g7ass). "Deed there’s” 

maist naething ither h’ard tell o’ dz¢ quittin’ ; for the full half o’ 
Scaurnose is un’er like nottice for Michaelmas, an’ the Lord kens ~ 
what it “ll a’ en’ in!” 

“ But what’s it for? Blue Peter’s no the man to misbehave 
himsel’.” 

“Weel, ye ken mair yersel’ nor ony ither as to the warst fau’t 
there is to lay till’s chairge ; for they say—that is, some say, it’s a? 
yer ain wyte, Ma’colm.” 

“What mean ye, man ? Speyk oot,” said Malcolm. 

as They say it’s a’ anent the abduckin’ o” the markis’s boat, ’at 
you an’ him gaed aff wi’ thegither.” 

“That'll hardly haud, seeing the marchioness hersel’ cany’ 


_ hame in her the last niente. 


286 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


‘Ay, but ye see the decree’s gane oot, an’ what the factor says | 
is like the laws 0’ the Medes an’ the Prussians, ’at they say’s no 
to be altert; I kenna mysel’.” 

“Ow weel! gien that be a’, I'll see efter that wi’ the marchioness.” 

“ Ay, but ye see there’s a lot o’ the laads there, as I’m tellt, ’at 
has vooed ’at factor nor factor’s man s’all ever set fut in Scaurnose 
frae this day furth. Gang ye doon to the Seaton, an’ see hoo — 
mony o’ yer auld freen’s ye'll fin’ there. Man, they’re a’ oot to 
Scaurnose to see the plisky !_ The factor he’s there, I ken, an’ some 
constables wi’ ’im—to see ’at his order ’s cairried oot. An’ the 
laads they ha’e been fortifeein’ the place—as they ca’ ’*t—for the 
last ook. They've howkit a trenk, they tell me, ’at nane but a — 
hunter on ’s horse cud win ower, an’ they’re postit alang the toon- 
side 0’ ’t wi’ sticks an’ stanes, an’ boat-heuks, an’ guns an’ pistils. 
An’ gien there bena a man or twa killt a’ready, ‘ 

Before he finished his sentence, Kelpie was levelling herself for 
the sea-gate. 

Johnny Bykes was locking it on the other side, in haste to 
secure his eye-share of what was going on, when he caught sight 
of Malcolm tearing up. Mindful of the old grudge, also that 
there was no marquis now to favour his foe, he finished the arrested 
act of turning the key, drew it from the lock, and to Malcolm’s 
orders, threats, and appeals, returned for all answer that he had 
no time to attend to Azm, and so left him looking through the 
bars. Malcolm dashed across the burn, and round the base of 
the hill on which stood the little windgod blowing his horn, dis- 
mounted, unlocked the door in the wall, got Kelpie through, and 
was in the saddle again before Johnny was half-way from the gate. 
When the churl saw him, he trembled, turned, and ran for its 
shelter again in terror—nor perceived until he reached it, that the 
insulted groom had gone off like the wind in the opposite 
direction. 

Malcolm soon left the high road and cut across the fields—over 
which the wind bore cries and shouts, mingled with laughter and 
the animal sounds of coarse jeering. When he came nigh the 
cart-road which led into the village, he saw at the entrance of the 
street a crowd, and rising from it the well-known shape of the 
factor on his horse. Nearer the sea, where was another entrance 
through the back-yards of some cottages, was a smaller crowd, 
Both were now pretty silent, for the attention of all was fixed on 
Malcolm’s approach. As he drew up Kelpie foaming and 
prancing, and the group made way for her, he saw a deep wide 
ditch across the road, on whose opposite side was ranged 
irregularly the flower of Scaurnose’s younger manhood, calmly, 


a ic ei Seem TE EAT Te ee i ae er OS Sab OV Se ek ee RR ere 8 
NEE er ae oS TOE aa i: AR gy antler aa Moe ey se ta a ERT g hac UB Ue SA ma Paes a OS Oh <r Dees 
\ acne cae a ee ogo) hey eS i AL ah a ai ET ett we RS prey pt aes CSNY eat ee Bae ‘J 
bof . ee » Th 3 “ PM a i Pr nas ate ok tae oe . 

“ PR Us tae z, ' 
tee pew | 


tee 9 


THE TRENCH. 287 


even merrily prepared to defend their entrenchment. They had 
been chaffing the factor, and loudly challenging the constables to 
come on, when they recognised Malcolm in the distance, and 
expectancy stayed the rush of their bruising wit. For they 
regarded him as beyond a doubt come from the marchioness with 
messages of goodwill. When he rode up, therefore, they raised a 
great shout, everyone welcoming him by name. But the factor, 
_ who, to judge by appearances, had had his forenoon dram ere he 
left home, burning with wrath, moved his horse in between 
Malcolm and the assembled Scaurnoseans on the other side of the 
ditch. He had self-command enough left, however, to make one 
attempt at the loftily superior. 
*“‘ Pray what is your business ?”’ he said, as if he had never seen 
Maicolm in his life before, ‘‘ I presume you come with a message.” 
“T come to beg you, sir, not to go further with this business, 
Surely the punishment is already enough!” said Malcolm 
respectfully. 

““Who sends me the message?” asked the factor, his teeth 
clenched, and his eyes flaming. 

“One,” answered Malcolm, “who has some influence for 
justice, and will use it, upon whichever side the justice may lie.” 

‘tro to hell” cried the factor, losing utterly his slender self- 
command, and raising his whip. 

Malcolm took no heed of the gesture, for he was at the moment 
beyond his reach. 

“Mr Crathie,” he said calmly, “you are banishing the best man 
in the place.” 

“No doubt! no doubt! seeing he’s a crony of yours,” laughed 
the factor in mighty scorn, “ ue canting, prayer-meeting rascal !” 
he added. 

“Ts that ony waur nor a drucken elyer o’ the kirk ?” cried Dubs 
from the other side of the ditch, raising a roar of laughter. 

The very purple forsook the factor’s face, and left it a corpse- 
like grey in the fire of his fury. 

“Come, come, my men ! that’s going too far,” said Malcolm. 

* An’ wha ir ye for a fudgie (¢7wan?) fisher, to gi’e coonsel ohn 
speired ?” shouted Dubs, altogether disappointed i in the poor part 
Malcolm seemed taking. ‘“‘Haud to the factor there wi’ yer 
coonsel.” . 

“Get out of my way,” said Mr Crathie, still speaking through — 


his set teeth, and came straight upon Malcolm. “ Home with — 


”? 


wali: Ot—-t——T 
Again he raised his whip, this time plainly with intent. 
“For God’s sake, factor, min’ the mere,” cried Malcolm. 


288 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


“Ribs an’ legs an’ a’ ’ill be to crack, gien ye anger her wi’ yer — 


whuppin’.” 

As he spoke, he drew a little aside that the factor might pass if 
he pleased. A noise arose in the smaller crowd, and Malcolm 
turned to see what it meant: off his guard, he received a stinging 
cut over the head from the factor’s whip. Simultaneously, 
Kelpie stood up on end, and Malcolm tore the weapon from the 
treacherous hand. 

“‘ If I gave you what you deserve, Mr Crathie, I should knock 
you and your horse together into that ditch. A touch of the spur 
would do it. Iam not quite sure that I ought not. A nature 
like yours takes forbearance for fear.” 

While he spoke, his mare was ramping and kicking, making a 
clean sweep ail about her. Mr Crathie’s horse turned restive 
from sympathy, and it was all his rider could do to keep his seat. 
As soon as he got Kelpie a little quieter, Malcolm drew near and 
returned him his whip. He snatched it from his outstretched 
hand, and essayed a second cut at him, which Malcolm rendered 
powerless by pushing Kelpie close up to him. Then suddenly 
wheeling, he left him. 

On the other side of the trench the fellows were shouting and 
roaring with laughter. 

“Men,” cried Malcolm, “you have no right to stop up this 
road. I want to go and see Blue Peter.” 

“Come on,” cried one of the young men, emulous of Dubs’s 
humour, and spread out his arms as if to receive Kelpie to his 
bosom. : 

“Stand out of the way then,” said Malcolm, “I am coming.” 

As he spoke, he took Kelpie a little round, keeping out of the 
way of the factor, who sat trembling with rage on his still excited 
animal, and sent her at the trench. 

The Deevil’s Jock, as they called him, kept jumping, with his 
arms outspread, from one place to another, as if to receive 


Kelpie’s charge, but when he saw her actually coming, in short, - 


quick bounds, straight to the trench, he was seized with terror, 
and, half-paralysed, slipped as he turned to flee, and rolled into 
the ditch, just in time to let Kelpie fly over his head. His com- 
trades scampered right and left, and Malcolm, rather disgusted, 
took no notice of them. 

A cart, loaded with their little all, the horse in the shafts, was 
standing at Peter’s door, but nobody was near it. Hardly was 


Malcolm well into the close, however, when out rushed Annie, — 


and, heedless of Kelpie’s demonstrative repellence, reached up 
her hands like a child, caught him by the arm, while yet he was 


THE TRENCH. 289 


busied with his troublesome charge, drew him down towards her, 
and held him till, in spite of Kelpie, she had kissed him again 
and again. 

“ih, Ma’colm ! eh, my lord!” she said, “ye ha’e saved my 
faith. I kenned ye wad come!” 

“Haud yer tongue, Annie. I mauna be kenned,” said 
Malcolm. 

“There’s nae danger. They’ll tak’ it for sweirin’,” answered 
Annie, laughing and crying both at once. 

Out next came Blue Peter, his youngest child in his arms. 

“Eh, Peter man! I’m blythe to see ye,” cried Malcolm. 
“ Gie’s a grup o’ yer honest han’.” 

More than even the sight of his face beaming with pleasure, 
more than that grasp of the hand that would have squeezed the 
life out of a pole-cat, was the sound of the mother-tongue from 
his lips. The cloud of Peter’s long distrust broke and vanished, 
and the sky of his soul was straightway a celestial blue. He 
snatched his hand from Malcolm’s, walked back into the empty 
house, ran into the little closet off the kitchen, bolted the door, 
fell on his knees in the void little sanctuary that had of late been 
the scene of so many foiled attempts to lift up his heart, and 
poured out speechless thanksgiving to the God of all grace and 
consolation, who had given him back his friend, and that in the 
time of his sore need. So true was his heart in its love, that, 
giving thanks for his friend, he forgot that friend was the 
Marquis of Lossie, before whom his enemy was but as a snail in 
the sun. 

When he rose from his knees, and went out again, his face 
shining and his eyes misty, his wife was on the top of the cart, 
tying a rope across the cradle. 

_ Peter,” said Malcolm, “ ye was quite richt to gang, but I’m 
glaid they didna lat ye.” 

“IT wad ha’e been half w’y to Port Gordon or noo,” said 
Peter. 

“But noo yell no gang to Port Gordon,” said Malcolm. 
fv il jist gang to the Salmon for a feow days, till we see hoo 
things gang.” 

“T’ll du onything ye like, Ma’colm,” said Peter, and went into 
the house to fetch his bonnet. 

In the street arose the cry of a woman, and into the close 
rushed one of the fisherwives, followed by the factor. He had 
found a place on the eastern side of the village, where, jumping 
a low earth wail, he got into a little back yard, and was trampling 
over its few stocks of kail, and its one dusty miller and double 


Og tp ee, ete at be oar Sh akg eae Pee 
oases : er. FES vedas Cre ecw fee 

7 % 4 fe - Tere, ee Se eS: 

; bee Pt ; q aie , : nag. 
a EP een: oy Ke ne pau ip 


oy gers : 
* c aes 


290 ~~ «. LHE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


_ daisy, when the woman to whose cottage it belonged one eS 

sight of him through the window, and running out fell to abusing 

him in no measured language. ‘He rode at her in his Tage, and. aa 
she fled shrieking into Peter’s close, where she took refuge 
behind the cart, never ceasing her vituperation, but calling him 
every choice name in her vocabulary. Beside himself with the 
rage of murdered dignity, he rode up, and struck at her over the 
corner of the cart, whereupon, from the top of it, Annie Mair 
ventured to expostulate, 

“Hoot, sir! It’s no mainners to lat at a wuman like that.” 

He turned upon her, and gave her a cut on the arm and hand, 
so stinging that she cried out, and nearly fell from the cart. Out | 
rushed Peter and flew at the factor, who from his seat of vantage 
began to ply his whip about his head. But Malcolm, who, when 
the factor appeared, had moved aside to keep Kelpie out of mis- 
chief, and saw only the second of the two assaults, came forward 
with a scramble and a bound. 

“ Haud awa, Peter,” he cried. ‘ This belangs tome. I ga’e 
him back ’s whup, an’ sae I’m accoontable.—Mr Crathie,”—and 
as he spoke he edged his mare up to the panting factor, “the 
man who strikes a woman must be taught that he is a scoundrel, 
and that office I take. I would do the same if you were the 
lord of Lossie instead of his factor.” 

Mr Crathie, knowing himself now in the wrong, was a little 
frightened at the set speech, and began to bluster and stammer, 
‘but the swift descent of Malcolm’s heavy riding whip on his 
shoulders and back made him voluble in curses. Then began a 
battle that could not last long with such odds on the side of 
justice. It was gazed at from the mouth of the close by many 
spectators, but none dared enter because of the capering and 
plunging and kicking of the horses. In less than a minute the 
factor turned to flee, and spurring out of the court, galloped up 
the street at full stretch. aa 

‘“‘Haud oot o’ the gait,” cried Malcolm, and rede after him. ia 
But more careful of the people, he did not get a good start, and 4 
the factor was over the trench and into the fields before he 
caught him up. Then again the stinging switch buckled about 
the shoulders of the oppressor, driven with all the force of Mal- 
colm’s brawny arm. ‘The factor yelled and cursed and swore, 

and still Malcolm plied the whip, and still the horses flew—over | 
fields and fences and ditches. At length in the last field, from 
which they must turn into the high road, the factor groaned 
out— 

“For God’s sake, Ma’colm, ha’e mercy !” 


ORR mT, © 


a 
SE i ot Seiad ap Meat, Tat, yt Pe ts, 
Te Ae tie SET A ean fee Ef kT Si 


es m 


“a 


‘¥ as . * ~ 4 Sie 2 a) ih a i “ 
Sie hes Cee StS ELS tee bed | Tel ee 


wt 


~ Ry 


THE TRENCH. | 291 


The youth’s uplifted arm fell by his side. He turned his 
mare’s head, and when the factor turned his, he saw the aven- 
ger already halfway back to Scaurnose, and the constables in full 
flight meeting him. 

While Malcolm was thus occupied, his sister was writing to 
Lady Bellair. She told her that, having gone out for a sail in 
her yacht, which she had sent for from Scotland, the desire to 
see her home had overpowered her to such a degree that of the 
intended sail she had made a voyage, and here she was, longing 
just as much now to see Lady Bellair ; and if she thought proper 
to bring a gentleman to take care of her, he also should be 
welcomed for her sake. It was a long way for her to come, she 
said, and Lady Bellair knew what sort of a place it was; but 
there was nobody in London now, and if she had nothing 
more enticing on her tablets, &c., &c. She ended with begging 
her, if she was mercifully inclined to make her happy with her 
presence, to bring to her Caley and her hound Demon. She had 
hardly finished when Malcolm presented himself. 

She received him very coldly, and declined to listen to any- 
thing about the fishers. She insisted that, being one of their 
party, he was prejudiced in their favour; and that of course a 
man of Mr Crathie’s experience must know better than he what 
ought to be done with such people, in view of protecting her 
rights, and keeping them in order. She declared that she was 
not going to disturb the old way of things to please him; and 
said that he had now done her all the mischief he could, except,’ 
indeed, he were to head the fishers and sack Lossie House. 
Malcolm found that, by making himself known to her as her 
brother, he had but given her confidence in speaking her mind 
to him, and set her free from considerations of personal dignity 
when she desired to humiliate him. But he was a good deal 
surprised at the ability with which she set forth and defended her 
own view of her affairs, for she did not tell him that the Rev. Mr 
Cairns had been with her all the morning, flattering her vanity, 
worshipping her power, and generally instructing her in her own 
greatness—also putting in a word or two anent his friend Mr 
Crathie and his troubles with her ladyship’s fisher tenants. She 
was still, however, so far afraid of her brother—which state of 
feeling was, perhaps, the main cause of her insulting behaviour to 
him—that she sat in some dread lest he might chance to see the 
address of the letter she had been writing. 

I may mention here that Lady Bellair accepted the invitation 
with pleasure for herself and Liftore, promised to bring Caley, ” 
but utterly declined to take charge of Demon, or allow him to 


292 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


be of the party. Thereupon Florimel, who was fond of the 
animal, and feared much, as he was no favourite, that something 
would happen to him, wrote to Clementina, praying her to visit 


her in her lovely loneliness—good as The Gloom in its way, — 


though not quite so dark—and to add a hair to the weight of her 


obligations if she complied, by allowing her deerhound to accom- — 


pany her. Clementina was the only one, she said, of her friends 
for whom the animal had ever shown a preference. 

Malcolm retired from his sister’s presence much depressed, 
saw Mrs Courthope, who was kind as ever, and betook himself 
to his own room, next to that in which his strange history began. 
There he sat down and wrote urgently to Lenorme, stating that 
he had an important communication to make, and begging him 
to start for the north the moment he received the letter. A mes- 
senger from Duff Harbour well mounted, he said, would ensure 
his presence within a couple of hours. 

He found the behaviour of his old acquaintances and friends 
in the Seaton much what he had expected: the few were as 
cordial as ever, while the many still resented, with a mingling of 


the jealousy of affection, his forsaking of the old life for a calling 


they regarded as unworthy of one bred at least if not born a 
fisherman. A few there were besides who always had been, for 
reasons perhaps best known to themselves, less than friendly. 
The women were all cordial. 


“Sic a mad-like thing,” said old Futtocks, who was now the 


leader of the assembly at the barn, “to gang scoorin’ the cuintry 
on that mad brute o’a mere! What guid, think ye, can come 0’ 
sic like?” 

“FVard ye him ever tell the story aboot Colonsay Castel 
yon’er P” 

SAY hev I.” 


“Weel, isna his mere ’at they ca’ Kelpie jist the pictur’ o’ the — 


deil’s ain horse ’at lay at the door an’ watched, whan he flaw oot 
an’ tuik the wa’ wi’ ’im ?” 
“‘T cudna say till I saw whether the deil himsel’ cud gar her 


lie still.” 
CHAPTER LIX. 
THE PEACEMAKER. 


THE heroes of Scaurnose expected a renewal of the attack, and 
in greater force, the next day, and made their preparations 


be 7. 


THE PEACEMAKER. 293 


accordingly, strengthening every weak point around the village. 
They were put in great heart by Malcolm’s espousal of their 
cause, as they considered his punishment of the factor ; but most: 
of them set it down in their wisdom as resulting from the popular 
condemnation of his previous supineness. It did not therefore 
add greatly to his influence with them. When he would have 
prevailed upon them to allow Blue Peter to depart, arguing that 
they had less right to prevent than the fector had to compel him, 
they once more turned upon him: what right had he to dictate 
to them? he did not belong to Scaurnose! He reasoned with 
them that the factor, although he had not justice, had law on his 
side, and could turn out whom he pleased. They said—‘ Let 
him try it!” He told them that they had given great provoca- 
tion, for he knew that the men they had assaulted came surveying 
for a harbour, and that they ought at least to make some apology 
for having maltreated them. It was all useless: that was the 
women’s doing, they said ; besides they did not believe him ; and 
if what he caid was true, what was the thing to them, seeing they 
were all under notice to leave? Malcolm said that perhaps an 
apology would be accepted. They told him, if he did not take 
himself off, they would serve him as he had served the factor. 
Finding expostulation a failure, therefore, he begged Joseph and 
Annie to settle themselves again as comfortably as they could, 
and left them. 
Contrary to the expectation of all, however, and considerably 
to the disappointment of the party of Dubs, Fite Folp, and the 
rest, the next day was as peaceful as if Scaurnose had been a 
halycon nest floating on the summer waves; and it was soon 
reported that, in consequence of the punishment he had received 
from Malcolm, the factor was far too ill to be troublesome to 
any but his wife. ‘This was true, but, severe as his chastisement 
was, it was not severe enough to have had any such consequences 
but for his late growing habit of drinking whisky. As it was, 
fever had followed upon the combination of bodily and mental 
suffering. But already it had wrought this good in him, that he 
was far more keenly aware of the brutality of the offence of which 
he had been guilty than he would otherwise have been all his life 
through. ‘To his wife, who first learned the reason of Malcolim’s 
treatment of him from his delirious talk in the night, it did not, 
circumstances considered, appear an enormity, and her indigna- 
tion with the avenger of it, whom she had all but hated before, 
was furious. Malcolm, on his part, was greatly concerned to 
hear the result of his severity. He refrained, however, from 
calling to inquire, knowing it would be interpreted as an insult, 


204 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


not accepted as a sign of sympathy. He went to the doccwr 


instead—who, to his consternation, looked very serious at first. 


But when he learned all about the affair, he changed his view — 


considerably, and condescended to give good hopes of his coming 
through, even adding that it would lengthen his -life by twenty 
years if it broke him of his habits of whisky-drinking and rage. 
And now Malcolm had a little time of leisure, which he put to 
the best possible use in strengthening his relations with the 
fishers. For he had nothing to do about the House, except look 
after Kelpie; and Florimel, as if determined to make him feel 
that he was less to her than before, much as she used to enjoy 
seeing him sit his mare, never took him out with her—always 
Stoat. He resolved therefore, seeing he must yet delay action a 
while in the hope of the appearance of Lenorme, to go out as in 
the old days after the herring, both for the sake of splicing, if 
possible, what strands had been broken between him and the 
fishers, and of renewing for himself the delights of elemental 
conflict. With these views, he hired himself to the Partan, 
whose boat’s crew was short-handed. And now, night after night, 
he revelled in the old pleasure, enhanced by so many months of 
deprivation. Joy itself seemed embodied in the wind blowing 
on him out of the misty infinite while his boat rocked and swung 
on the waters, hanging between two worlds, that in which the 
wind blew, and that other dark-swaying mystery whereinto the 
nets to which it was tied went away down and down, gathering 
the harvest of the ocean. It was as if nature called up all her 
motherhood to greet and embrace her long absent son. When 
it came on to blow hard, as it did once and again during those 
summer nights, instead of making him feel small and weak in 
the midst of the storming forces, it gave him a glorious sense of 
power and unconquerable life. And when his watch was out, 
and the boat lay quiet, like a horse tethered and asleep in his 
clover-field, he too would fall asleep with a sense of simultane- 


ously deepening and vanishing delight such as he had not at all — 


in other conditions experienced. Ever since the poison had got 
into his system, and crept where it yet lay lurking in hidden 
corners and crannies, a noise at night would on shore startle him 
awake, and set his heart beating hard; but no loudest sea-noise 
ever woke him; the stronger the wind flapped its wings around 
him, the deeper he slept. When a comrade called him by name, 
he was up at once and wide awake. | 
It answered also all his hopes in regard to his companions and 
the fisher-folk generally. ‘Those who had really known him 
found the same old Malcolm, and those who had doubted him 


x 


THE PEACEMAKER. 295 


sun began to see that at least he had lost nothing in courage or 
skill or goodwill: ere long he was even a greater favourite than 
before. On his part, he learned to understand far better the 
nature of his people, as well as the individual characters of them, 
for his long (but not too long) absence and return enabled him 
to regard them with unaccustomed, and therefore in some 
respects more discriminating eyes. 

. Duncan’s former dwelling happening to be then occupied by a 
1onely woman, Malcolm made arrangemenis with her to take 
them both in; so that in relation to his grandfather too some- 
thing very much like the old life returned for a time—with this 
difference, that Duncan soon began to check himself as often as 
the name of his hate, with its accompanying curse, rose to his 
lips. 

The factor continued very ill. He had sunk into a low state, 
in which his former indulgence was greatly against him. Every 
night the fever returned, and at length his wife was worn out 
with watching, and waiting upon him. 

And every morning Lizzy Findlay, without fail, called to 
inquire how Mr Crathie had spent the night. To the last, while 
quarrelling with every one of her neighbours with whom he had 
anything to do, he had continued kind to her, and she was more 
grateful than one in other trouble than hers could have under- 
stood. But she did not know that an element in the origination 
of his kindness was the belief that it was by Malcolm she had 
been wronged and forsaken. 

Again and again she had offered, in the humblest manner, to 
ease his wife’s burden by sitting with him at night; and at last, 
finding she could hold up no longer, Mrs Crathie consented. 
But even after a week she found herself still unable to resume 
the watching, and so, night after night, resting at home during a 
part of the day, Lizzy sat by the sleeping factor, and when he 
woke ministered to him like a daughter. Nor did even her 
mother object, for sickness is a wondrous reconciler. Little did 
the factor suspect, however, that it was partly for Malcolm’s sake 
she nursed him, anxious to shield the youth from any possible 
consequences of his righteous vengeance. 

While their persecutor lay thus, gradually everything at Scaur- 
nose, and consequently at the Seaton, lapsed into its old way, 
and the summer of such content as before they had possessed, 
returned to the fishers. I fear it would have proved hard for 
some of them, had they made effort in that direction, to join in 
the prayer, if prayer it may be called, put up in church for him 
every Sunday. What a fearful’ canopy the prayers that do not 


296 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


get beyond the atmosphere would make if they turned brown 
with age! Having so lately seen the factor going about like a 
maniac, raving at this piece of damage and that heap of dirt, the 
few fishers present could never help smiling when Mr Cairns 
prayed for him as “the servant of God and his church now lying 
grievously afflicted—persecuted, but not forsaken, cast down, but 
not destroyed ;”—having found the fitting phrases he seldom 
varied them. 

Through her sorrow, Lizzy had grown tender, as through her 
shame she had grown wise. ‘That the factor had been much in 
the wrong only rendered her anxious sympathy the more eager 
to serve him. Knowing so well what it was to have done wrong, 
she was pitiful over him, and her ministrations were none the 
less devoted that she knew exactly how Malcolm thought and 
felt about him ; for the affair, having taken place in open village 
and wide field and in the light of mid-day, and having been 
reported by eye-witnesses many, was everywhere perfectly known, 
and Malcolm therefore talked of it freely to his friends, amongst 
them both to Lizzy and her mother. 

Sickness sometimes works marvellous changes, and the most 
marvellous on persons who to the ordinary observer seem the 
least liable to change. Much apparent steadfastness of nature, 
however, is but sluggishness, and comes from incapacity to 
generate change or contribute towards personal growth; and it 
follows that those whose nature is such can as little prevent or 
retard any change that has its initiative beyond them. The men 
who impress the world as the mightiest are those often who can 
the least—never those who can the most in their natural kingdom; 


generally those whose frontiers le openest to the inroads of 


temptation, whose atmosphere is most subject to moody changes 
and passionate convulsions, who, while perhaps they can whisper 
laws to a hemisphere, can utter no decree of smallest potency as 
to how things shall be within themselves. Place Alexander ille 
Magnus beside Malcolm’s friend Epictetus, ille servorum servus; 
take his crutch from the slave and set the hero upon his Buce- 


phalus—but set them alone and in a desert: which will prove — 


the great man? which the unchangeable? The question being 
what the man himself shall or shall not be, shall or shall not 
feel, shall or shall not recognize as of himself and troubling the 
motions of his being, Alexander will prove a mere earth-bubble, 
Epictetus a cavern in which pulses the tide of the eternal and 
infinite Sea. 

. But then first, when the false strength of the self-imagined great 
man is gone, when the want or the sickness has weakened the 


a 2. ee 


— ~~ aeer a” - Fe ee ae a ‘ee eee Oh” Pe ee ee, Se he LAD te) we EPS eS + pi lan Sn : re, 
er egy ep eT Te ee Ge te Tes 
« whe A Ae f ~ Oo eee a. 2 i , ep hy , - * ye es; ay Bee ee Reale tae 
r Ux Ae es Ng ~ é Pre aaa . : 
: > pe Ps) ag ‘ ; . ei cise, uae 


% ., = ve a 


THE PEACEMAKER. 897° 


selfassertion which is so often mistaken for strength of in 
dividuality, when the occupations in which he formerly found a 
comfortable consciousness of being have lost their interest, his 
ambitions their glow, -and his consolations their colour, when 
suffering has wasted away those upper strata of his factitious 
consciousness, and laid bare the lower, simpler, truer deeps, of 
which he has never known or has forgotten the existence, then 
there is a hope of his commencing a new and real life. Powers 
then, even powers within himself, of which he knew nothing, 
begin to assert themselves, and the man commonly reported to 
possess a strong will, is like a wave of the sea driven with the 
wind and tossed. This factor, this man of business, this despiser 
of humbug, to whom the scruples of a sensitive conscience were 
a contempt, would now lie awake in the night and weep. 
‘Ah: I hear it answered, ‘‘but that was the weakness caused 
by his illness.” ‘True: but what then had become of his 
strength? And was it all weakness? What if this weakness- 
was itself a sign of returning life, not of advancing death—of the 
dawn of a new and genuine strength! For he wept because, in 
the visions of his troubled brain, he saw once more the cottage 
of his father the shepherd, with all its store of lovely nothings 
round which the nimbus of sanctity had gathered while he 
thought not of them; wept over the memory of that moment of 
delight when his mother kissed him for parting with his willow 
whistle to the sister who cried for it: he cried now in his turn, 
after five and fifty years, for not yet had the little fact done with 
him, not yet had the kiss of his mother lost its power on the 
man: wept over the sale of the pet-lamb, though he had himself 
sold thousands of lambs since; wept over even that bush of 
dusty miller by the door, like the one he trampled under his 
horse’s feet in the little yard at Scaurnose that horrible day. 
And oh, that nest of wild bees with its combs of honey unspeak- 
able! He used to laugh and sing then: he laughed still some- 
times—he could hear how he laughed, and it sounded frightful — 
—but he never sang! Were the tears that honoured such 
childish memories all of weakness? Was it cause of regret that 
he had not been wicked enough to have become impregnable to 
such foolish trifles? Unable to mount a horse, unable to give 
an order, not caring even for his toddy, he was left at the mercy 
of his fundamentals ; his childhood came up and claimed hin, 
and he found the childish things he had put away better than the 
manly things he had adopted. It is one thing for St Paul and | 
ensther for Mr Woz:cly Wiseman to put away childish things 
The ways they de it, and the things they substitute, are both so 


298 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


different? And now frst to me, whose weakness it is to love 


life more than manners, and men more than their portraits, the ; i 


man begins to grow interesting. Picture the dawn of innocence 
on a dull, whisky-drinking, common-placé soul, stained by self-- 
indulgence, and. distorted by injustice! Unspeakably more 
interesting and lovely is to me such a dawn than the honey- 
moon of the most passiovyte of lovers, except indeed I know 
them such lovers that their love will outlast all the moons. 

“I’m a poor creature, Lizzy,” he said, turning his heavy face 
one midnight towards the girl, as she sat half-dozing, ready to 
start awake. 

“God comfort ye, sir!” said the girl. 

“He'll take good care of that!” returned the factor. * What 
did I ever do to deserve it?—There’s that MacPhail, now—to 
think of kim? Didn’t I do what man could for him? Didn't I 
keep him about the place when all the rest were dismissed? 
Didn’t I give him the key of the library, that he might read 
and improve his mind? And look what comes of it!” 

“Ye mean, sir,” said Lizzy, quite innocently, “’at that’s the 
w'y ye ha’e dune wi’ God, an’ sae he winna heed ye?” 


“Me 


The factor had meant nothing in the least like it Hehad 


merely been talking as the imps of suggestion tossed up. His 


logic was as sick and helpless as himself. So at that he held his — 
peace—stung in his pride at least—perhaps in his conscience - 


too, only he was not prepared to be rebuked by a girl like her, 
who had Well, he must let it pass: how much better was he 
himself ? 

But Lizzy was loyal: she could not hear him speak so of 
Malcolm and hold her peace as if she agreed in his condemnation. 

“Ye'll ken Ma’colm better some day, sir,” she said. 

“Well, Lizzy,” returned the sick man, in a tone that but for 
feebleness would have been indignant, “I have heard a good 
deal of the way women wz// stand up for men that have treated 
them cruelly, but you to stand up for Aim passes !” 

“He's been the best friend I ever had,” said Lizzy. 

“Girl! how can you sit there, and tell me so to my face?” 
cried the factor, his voice strengthened .by the righteousness of 
the reproof it bore. “If it were not the dead of the night——” 


‘‘T tell ye naething but the trowth, sir,” said Lizzy, as the | 


contingent threat died away. “But ye maun lie still or I maun 
gang for the mistress. Gien ye be the waur the morn, it'll be a’ 
my wyte, ’cause I cudna bide to hear sic things said 0’ Ma’colm.” 

“Do you mean to tell me,” persisted her charge, heedless of 
her expostulation, “ that the fellow who brought you to disgrace, 


THE PEACEMAKER. 299 


and left you with a child you could ill provide for—and I well 
know never sent you a penny all the time he was away, whatever 
he may have done now, is the best friend you ever had ?” 

“Noo God forgie ye, Maister Crathie, for threipin’ sic a 
thing !” cried Lizzy, rising as if she would leave him. ‘ Ma’colm 
MacPhail ’s as clear o’ ony sin. like mine as my wee bairnie 
rtset'/? 

~ “To ye daur tell me he’s no the father o’ that same, lass?” 

“ No; nor never will be the father o’ ony bairn whase mither 
’s no his wife!” said Lizzy, with burning cheeks and resolute 
voice. 

The factor, who had risen on his elbow to look her in the face, 
fell back in silence, and neither of them spoke for what seemed 
to the watcher a long time. When she ventured to look at him, 
he was asleep. | 

He lay in one of those troubled slumbers into which weakness 
and exhaustion will sometimes pass very suddenly ; and in that 
slumber he had a dream which he never forgot. He thought he 
had risen from his grave with an awful sound in his ears, and 
knew he was wanted at the judgment seat. But he did not 
want to go, therefore crept into the porch of the church, and 
hoped to be forgotten. But suddenly an angel appeared with a 
flaming sword and drove him out of the churchyard away to 
Scaurnose where the judge was sitting. And as he fled in terror 
before the angel, he fell, and the angel came and stood over him, 
and his sword flashed torture into his bones, but he could not 
and dared not rise. At last, summoning all his strength, he 
looked up at him, and cried out, ‘Sir, ha’e mercy, for God’s 
sake.” Instantly all the flames drew back into the sword, and 
the blade dropped, burning like a brand, from the hilt, which 
the angel threw away.—And lo! it was Malcolm MacPhail, and 
ie was stooping to raise him. With that he awoke, and there 
was Lizzy looking down on him anxiously. 

“What are you looking like that for?” he asked crossly. 

She did not like to tell him that she had been alarmed by his 
\Yropping asleep: and in her confusion she fell back on the last 
subject. 

“There maun be some mistak, Mr Crathie,” she said. “I 
wuss ye wad tell me what gars ye hate Ma’colm MacPhail as 

e du.” 
- The factor, although he seemed to himself to know well 
enough, was yet a little puzzled how to commence his reply; | 
and therewith a process began that presently turned into some- 
wing with which never in his life before had his inward parts been 


300 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. - 


acquainted—a sort of self-examination to wit. He said to him- 
self, partly in the desire to justify his present dislike—he would 
not call it hate, as Lizzy did—that he used to get on with the 
lad well enough, and had never taken offence at his freedoms, 
making no doubt his manner came of his blood, and he could 
not help it, being a chip of the old block ; but when he ran away 
with the marquis’s boat, and went to the marchioness and told 
her lies against him—then what could he do but—dislike him ? 

Arrived at this point, he opened his mouth and gave the 
substance of what preceded it for answer to Lizzy’s question. 
But she replied at once. 

“ Nobody ’ill gar me believe, sir, ’at Ma’colm MacPhail ever 
tellt a lee again’ you or onybody. I dinna believe he ever tellt 
a lee in’s life. Jist ye exem’ him weel anent it, sir. An’ for 
the boat, nae doobt it was makin’ free to tak it ; but ye ken, sir, 
’at hoo he was maister o’ the same. It was in his chairge, an’ 
ye ken little aboot boats yersel,’ or the sailin’ o’ them, sir.” 

“ But it was me that engaged him again, after all the servants 
at the House had been dismissed: he was my servant.” 

“That maks the thing luik waur, nae doobt,” allowed Lizzy, 
with something of cunning. ‘‘ Hoo was't ’at he cam to du ’t 
ava’ (of all, at all), sir? Can ye min’ ?” she pursued. 

red discharged him.” 

“¢ An’ what for, gien I may mak’ bold to speir, sir?” she went on. 

“ For insolence.” 

“Wad ye tell me hoo he answert ye? Dinna think me 
meddlin’, sir. I’m clear certain there’s been some mistak. Ye 
cudna be sae guid to me, an’ be ill to him, ohn some mistak.” 

It was consoling to the conscience of the factor, in regard of 
his behaviour to the two women, to hear his own praise for kind- 
ness from woman’s lips. He took no offence therefore at her 
persistent questioning, but told her as well and as truly as he 
could remember, with no more than the all but unavoidable 
exaggeration with which feeling qwe// colour fact, the whole 
passage between Malcolm and himself concerning the sale of 
Kelpie, and closed with an appeal to the judgment of his 
listener, in which he confidently anticipated her verdict. . 

“A most ridiclous thing! ye can see yersel’ as weel ’s 
onybody, Lizzy! An’ sic a thing to ca’ an honest man like 
mysel’ a hypocrete for! ha! ha! ha! There’s no a bairn 
’atween John o’ Groat’s an’ the Lan’s En’ disna ken ’at the seller 
o’ a horse is b’un’ to reese (ex/o/) him, an’ the buyer to tak care 
o himsel’. I’ll no say it’s jist allooable to tell a doonricht lee: 
but ye may come full nearer till’t in horse-dealin’, ohn sinned, 


wy a 


Zé 
~ ae 


THE PEACEMAKER. 301 


nor in ony ither kin’ o’ merchandeze. It’s like luve an’ war, in 
baith which, it’s weel keened, a’ thing’s fair. The saw sud rin — 
Luve an war an horse-dealin’.—Divna ye see, Lizzy ?” 

But Lizzy did not answer, and the factor, hearing a stifled sob, 
started to his elbow. 

“Lie still, sir,” said Lizzy. ‘It’s naething. I was only jist 
thinkin’ ’at that wad be the w’y ’at the father o’ my bairn rizoned 
wi’ himsel’ whan he lee’d to me.” : 

“Hey !” said the astonished factor, and in his turn held his 
peace, trying to think. 

Now Lizzy, for the last few months, had been going to school, 
the same school with Malcolm, open to all comers, the only 
school where one is sure to be led in the direction of wisdom, 
and there she had been learning to some purpose—as plainly 
appeared before she had done with the factor. 

“Whase kirk are ye elder 0’, Maister Crathie?” she asked 
presently. 

“Ow, the kirk o’ Scotlan’, of coorse!” answered the patient, 
in some surprise at her ignorance. | 
“Ay, ay,” returned Lizzy; “but whase aucht (ownéng, 

property) ist?” 

“ Ow, whase but the Redeemer’s !” 

“ An’ div ye think, Mr Craithie, ’at gien Jesus Christ had had 
a horse to sell, he wad ha’e hidden frae him ’at wad buy, ae hair 
0’ a fau't ’at the beast hed? Wad he no ha’e dune till’s neiper 
as he wad ha’e his neiper du to him?” 

“Lassie! lassie! tak care hoo ye even fim to sic like as hiz 
(ws). What wad he hae to du wi’ horse-flesh ?” 

Lizzy held her peace. Here was no room for argument. He 
had flung the door of his conscience in the face of her who woke 
it. But it was too late, for the word was in already. Oh! that 
false reverence which men substitute for adoring obedience, and 
wuerewith they reprove the childlike spirit that does not know 
another kingdom than that of God and that of Mammon! God 
never gave man thing to do concerning which it were irreverent 
to ponder how the son of God would have done it. 

But, I say, the word was in, and, partly no doubt from its 
following so close upon the dream the factor had had, was 
potent in its operation. He fell a thinking, and a thinking more 
honestly than he had thought for many a day. And presently it 
was revealed to him that, if he were in the horse-market wanting to 
buy, and a man there who had to sell said to him—“ He wadna 
du for you, sir; ye wad be tired o’ ’im in a week,” he would 
never remark, “ What a fool the fellow is!” but-—“ Weel noo. I 


s6a THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


ca’ that neibourly!” He did not get quite so far just then as to 


see that every man to whom he might want to sell a horse was — 4 
as much his neighbour as his own brother; nor, indeed, if he — 
had got as far, would it have indicated much progress in honesty, 


_ seeing he would at any time, when needful and possible, have 
cheated that brother in the matter of a horse, as certainly as he 
would a Patagonian ora Chinaman. But the warped glass of a 
bad maxim had at least been cracked in his window. 

The peacemakers sat in silence the rest of the night, but the 
factor’s sleep was broken, and at times he wandered. He was 


not so well the next day, and his wife, gathering that Lizzie had — 
been talking, and herself feeling better, would not allow her to. 


sit up with him any more. 

Days and days passed, and still Malcolm had no word from 
Lenorme, and was getting hopeless in respect of that quarter of 
possible aid. But so long as Florimel could content herself 
with the quiet of Lossie House, there was time to wait, he said 
to himself. She was not idle, and that was promising. Every 
day she rode out with Stoat. Now and then she would make 
a call in the neighbourhood, and, apparently to- trouble Mal- 
-colm, took care to let him know that on one of these occasions 


her call had been upon Mrs Stewart. One thing he did feel: 


was that she made no renewal of her friendship with his grand- 
father: she had, alas! outgrown the girlish fancy. Poor 
Duncan took it much to heart. She saw more of the minister 
and his wife, who both flattered her, than anybody else, and was 
expecting the arrival of Lady Bellair and Lord Liftore with 


the utmost impatience. They, for their part, were making ~ 


the journey by the easiest possible stages, tacking and veering, 
and visiting everyone of their friends that lay between London 
and Lossie : they thought to give Florimel the little lesson, that, 
though they accepted her invitation, they had plenty of friends 
in the world besides her ladyship, and were not dying to see her. 
One evening, Malcolm, as he left the grounds of Mr Morrison, 
on whom he had been calling, saw a travelling carriage pass 
towards Portlossie ; and something liker fear laid hold of his 
heart than he had ever felt except when Florimel and he on the 
night of the storm took her father for Lord Gernon the wizard. 
As soon as he reached certain available fields, he sent Kelpie 
tearing across them, dodged through a fir-wood, and came out 
on the road half a mile in front of the carriage: as again it 
passed him he saw that his fears were facts, for in it sat the bold- 
faced countess, and the mean-hearted lord. Something must be 
done at last, and until it was done good watch must be kept. 


cs c be oa we : te * Ohi ‘ is or z aa py 
et ; : t." 
AN OFFERING. | 303 


{ must here note that, during this time of hoping and waiting 
Malcolm had attended to another matter of importance. Over 
every element influencing his life, his family, his dependents, his 
property, he desired to possess a lawful, honest command : where 
he had to render account, he would be head. Therefore, through 
Mr Soutar’s London agent, to whom he sent up Davy, and whom 
he brought acquainted with Merton, and his former landlady at 
the curiosity shop, he had discovered a good deal about Mrs 
Catanach from her London associates, among them the herb- 
doctor, and his little boy who had watched Davy, and he had 
now almost completed an outline of evidence, which, grounded 
on that of Rose, might be used against Mrs Catanach at any 
moment. He had also set inquifies on foot in the track of 
Caley’s antecedents, and had discovered more than the acquaint- 
ance between her and Mrs Catanach. Also he had arranged 
that Hodges, the man who had lost his leg through his cruelty to 
Kelpie, should leave for Duff Harbour as soon as possible after 
his discharge from the hospital. He was determined to crush 
the evil powers which had been ravaging his little world. 


CHAPTER LX 
AN OFFERING. 


CLEMENTINA was always ready to accord any reasonable request 


Florimel could make of her; but her letter lifted such a weight — 


from her heart and life that she would now have done whatever she 
desired, reasonable or unreasonable, provided only it was honest. 
She had no difficulty in accepting Florimel’s explanation that her 
sudden disaypearance was but a breaking of the social gaol, the 


flight of the weary bird from its foreign cage back to the country 


of its nest ; and that same morning she called upon Demon. 


The hound, feared and neglected, was rejoiced to see her, came 


when she called him, and received her caresses: there was no 
ground for dreading his company. It was a long journey, but if 
it had been across a desert instead of through her own country, 
the hope that lay at the end of it would have made it more than 
pleasant. She, as well as Lady Bellair, had friends upon the 
way, but no desire to lengthen the journey or shorten its ted 
by visiting them. 

The letter would have found her at Wastbeach instead ay 


eee 


Soke 2 ee 
Fae 


> 
sac. 


304 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


London, had not the society and instructions of the schoolmaster 
detained her a willing prisoner to its heat and glare and dust. Him 
enly in all London must she see to bid good-bye. ‘To Camden 
Fown therefore she went that same evening, when his work would 
Se over for the day. As usual now, she was shown into his room 
—his only one. As usual also, she found him poring over his 
Greek Testament. The gracious, graceful woman looked lovelily 


strange in that mean chamber—like an opal in a brass ring. 


There was no such contrast between the room and its occupant. 
His bodily presence was too weak to “stick fiery off” from its 


- surroundings, and to the eye that saw through the bodily pre- 


sence to the inherent grandeur, that grandeur suggested no dis- 
crepancy, being of the kind that lifts everything to its own level, 
casts the mantle of its own radiance around its surroundings. 
Still to the eye of love and reverence it was not pleasant to see 
him in such evtourage, and now that Clementina was going to 
leave him, the ministering spirit that dwelt in the woman was 
troubled. 

“Ah!” he said, and rose as she entered; “this is then the 
angel of my deliverance!” But with such a smile he did not 
look as if he had much to be delivered from. ‘“‘ You see,” he 


went on, ‘old man as I am, and peaceful, the summer will lay ~ 
hold upon me. She stretches out a long arm into this desert of 


houses and stones, and sets me longing after the green fields and 
the living air—-it seems dead here—and the face of God—as 
much as one may behold cf the Infinite through the revealing 
veil of earth and sky and sea. Shall I confess my weakness, my 
poverty of spirit, my covetousness after the visual? I was even 
getting a little tired of that glorious God-and-man-lover, Saul of 
Tarsus—no, not of him, never of 42m, only of his shadow in his 
words. Yet perhaps,.yes I think so, it is God alone of whom a 
man can never get tired. Well, no matter; tired I was; when 
lo! here comes my pupil, with more of God in her face than all 
the worlds and their skies he ever made!” 

“I would my heart were as full of him, too, then, sir!” 
answered Clementina. “ But if Iam anything of a comfort to 
you, | am more than glad,—therefore the more sorry to tell you 
that 1 am going to leave you—though for a little while only, I 
trust. 

“You do not take me by surprise, my lady. I have of course 
been looking forward for some time to my loss and your gain. 


The world is full of little deaths, deaths of all sorts and sizes, 


rather let me say. For this one I was prepared. The good 
summer land calls you to its bosom, and you must go.” 


alle 


AN OFFERING. — 305 


“ Come with me,” cried Clementina, her eyes eager with the 
light of the sudden thought, while her heart reproached her 
grievously that only now first had it come to her. 


“ A man must not leave the most irksome work for the most - 


peaceful pleasure,” answered the schoolmaster. ‘‘I am able to 
live—yes, and do my work, without you, my lady,” he added 
with a smile, ‘‘ though I shall miss you sorely.” 

“ But you do not know where I want you to come,” she said. 

“What difference can that make, my lady, except indeed in 
the amount of pleasure to be refused, seeing this is not a matter 
of choice? I must be with the children whom I have engaged 
to teach, and whose parents pay me for my labour—not with 
those who, besides, can do well without me.” 

“I cannot, sir—not for long, at least.” 

“ What! not with Malcolm to supply my place?” 

Clementina blushed, but only like a white rose. She did not 
turn her head aside ; she did not lower their lids to veil the light 
she felt mount into her eyes; she looked him gently in the face 
as before, and her aspect of entreaty did not change. 

“Ah ! do not be unkind, master,” she said. 

* Unkind!” he repeated. “You know I am not. I have 
more kindness in my heart than my lips can tell. You do not 
know, you could not yet imagine the half of what I hope of and 
for and from you.” 

“T am going to see Malcolm,” she said, with a little sigh. © 
“ That is, 1 am going to visit Lady Lossie at her place in Scotland 
—your own old home, where so many must love you.—Can’t 
you come? I shall be travelling alone, quite alone, except my 
servants.” 

A shadow came over the schoolmaster’s face. 

“You do not ¢#znk, my lady, or you would not press me. It 
pains me that you do not see at once it would be dishonest to 
go without timely notice to my pupils, and to the public too. 
But, beyond that quite, I never do anything of myself. I go, 
not where I wish, but where I seem to be called or sent. I never 
even wish much—except when I pray to him in whom are hid 
all the treasures of wisdom and knowledge. After what he wants 
to give me I am wishing all day long. I used to build many 
castles, not without a beauty of their own—that was when I had 
less understanding : now I leave them to God to build for me— 
he does it better and they last longer. See now, this very hour, 
when I needed help—could I have contrived a more lovely 
annihilation of the monotony that threatened to invade my weary 
spirit, than this inroad of light in the person of my lady Clemen. © 

U 


Pe a 


306 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


tina? Nor will he allow me to get over-wearied with vain efforts. 


I do not think he will keep me here long, for I find I cannot do 
much for these children. They are but some of his many pagans 
_ —not yet quite ready to receive Christianity, I think—not lke 
children with some of the old seeds of the truth buried in them, 
that want to be turned up nearer to the light. This ministration 


I take to be more for my good than theirs—a little trial of faith — 


and patience for me—a stony corner of the lovely valley of 
humiliation to cross. True, I mzght be happier where I could 
hear the larks, but I do not know that anywhere have I been 
more peaceful than in this little room, on which I see you so 


often cast round your eyes curiously—perhaps pitifully, my — 


lady ?” 

“Tt is not at all a fit place for you,” said Clementina, with a 
touch of indignation. 

“Softly, my lady-—lest, without knowing it, your love should 
make you sin! Who set thee, I pray, for a guardian angel 
over my welfare? I could scarce havea lovelier—true ! but where 
is thy brevet? No, my lady! it is a greater than thou that sets 
me the bounds of my habitation. Perhaps he may give 
me a palace one day. If I might choose, it would be the 
things that belong to a cottage—the whiteness and the 
greenness and the sweet odours of cleanliness. But the father 
has decreed for his children that they shall know the thing that 
is neither their ideal nor his. Who can imagine how in this 
respect things looked to our Lord when he came and found so 
little faith on the earth! But, perhaps, my lady, you would not 
pity my present condition so much, if you had seen the cottage 
in which I was born, and where my father and my mother loved 
each other, and died happier than on their wedding day. 
There I was happy too until their loving ambition decreed that 
I should be a scholar and a clergyman. Not before then did I 
ever know anything worthy of the name of trouble. A little 
cold and a little hunger at times, and not a little restlessness 
always was all. But then—ah then, my troubles began! Yet 
God, who bringeth light out of darkness, hath brought good even 
out of my weakness and presumption and half unconscious false- 
hood !—When do you go?” 

“To-morrow morning—as I purpose.” 

“Then God be with thee. He zs with thee, only my prayer 
is that thou mayest know it. He is with me and I know it. He 
does not find this chamber too mean or dingy or unclean to let 
me know him near me in it.” 

“Tell me one thing before I go,” said Clementina: “are we 


AN OFFERING. - 307 


not commanded to bear each others burdens and so fulfil the 
law of Christ? I read it to-day.” 

“Then why ask me?” 

“ For another question : does not that involve the command to 
those who have burdens that they shouldallow otherstobearthem?” 

“Surely, my lady. But JZ have no burden to let you bear.” 

“Why should I have everything, and you nothing P—Answer 
‘me that.” 

“‘ My lady, I have millions more than you, for I have been 
gathering the crumbs under my master’s table for thirty years.” 

“ You are a king,” answered Clementina. “ But a king needs 
a handmaiden somewhere in his house: that let me be in yours. 
No, I will be proud, and assert my nights. J am your daughter. 
If 1 am not, why am I here? Do you not remember telling me 
that the adoption of God meant a closer relation than any other 
fatherhood, even his own first fatherhood could signify? You 
cannot cast me off if you would. Why should you be poor when 
I am rich P—You ave poor. You cannot deny it,” she concluded 
with a serious playfulness. 

“TJ will not deny my privileges,” said the schoolmaster, with a 
smile such as might have acknowledged the possession of some 
exquisite and envied rarity. 

““T believe,” insisted Clementina, “ you are just as poor as the 
apostle Paul when he sat down to make a tent—or as our Lord 
himself after he gave up carpentering.” 

“ You are wrong there, my lady. I am not so poor as they 
must often. have been.” 

“But I don’t know how long I may be away, and you may fall 
ill, or—or—see some—some book you want very much, or 4 

“T never do,” said the schoolmaster. 

“What ! never see a book you want to have?” . 
“No; not now. I have my Greek Testament, my Plato, and 
my Shakspere—and one or two little books besides, whose wis- ~ 
dom J have not yet quite exhausted.” 


“JT can’t bear it!” cried Clementina, almost on the point of — 


weeping. ‘‘ You will not let me near you. You put out an arm 
as long as the summer’s and push me away from you. Ze¢ me 
be your servant.” 

As she spoke, she rose, and walking softly up to him where he 
sat kneeled at his knees, and held out suppliantly a little bag of © 
white silk, tied with crimson. ’ 

“ Take it—father,” she said, hesitating, and bringing the word 
out with an effort; “take your daughter’s offering—a poor thing 
to show her love, but something to ease her heart.” 


308 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


He took it, and weighed it upeand down in his hand with an 
amused smile, but his eyes full of tears. It was heavy. He 
opened it. A chair was within his reach, he emptied it on 
the seat of it, and laughed with merry delight as its contents 
came tumbling out. 

“‘T never saw so much gold in my life, if it were all taken 
together,” he said. ‘‘ What beautiful stuff it is! But I don’t 
want it, my dear. It would but trouble me.” And as he spoke, 
he began to put it in the bag again. ‘“‘ You will want it for your 
journey,” he said. 

“JT have plenty in my reticule,” she answered. ‘ That is a 
mere nothing to what I could have to-morrow morning for 
writing a cheque. I am afraid I am very rich. It is such a 
shame! But I can’t well help it. You must teach me how to 
become poor.—Tell me true: how much money have you?” 

She said this with such an earnest look of simple love that the 
schoolmaster made haste to rise, that he might conceal his 
growing emotion. . 

‘“ Rise, my dear lady,” he said, as he rose himself, ‘“‘and I 
will show you.” 

He gave her his hand, and she obeyed, but troubled and dis- 
appointed, and so stood looking after him, while he. went to a 
drawer. ‘Thence, searching in a corner of it, he brought a half- 
sovereign, a few shillings, and some coppers, and held them out to 
her on his hand, with the smile of one who has proved his point. 

“There !” he said; ‘do you think Paul would have stopped 
preaching to make a tent so long as he had as much as that in 
his pocket? I shall have more on Saturday, and I always 
carry a month’s rent in my good old watch, for which I never 
had much use, and now have less than ever.” 

Clementina had been struggling with herself; now she burst 
into tears. 

‘““Why, what a misspending of precious sorrow!” exclaimed 
the schoolmaster. ‘‘ Do you think because a man has not a gold 
mine he must die of hunger? I once heard of a sparrow that never 
had a worm left for the morrow, and died a happy death notwith- 
standing.” As he spoke he took her handkerchief from her 
hand and dried her tears with it. But he had enough ado to 
keep his own back. ‘“ Because I won’t take a bagful of gold 
from you when I don’t want it,” he went on, “do you think I 
should let myself starve without coming to you? I promise you 
I will let you know—come to you if I can, the moment I get 
too hungry to do my work well, and have no money left. Should 
Tithink it a disgrace to take money from you? That would 


AN OFFERING. 305 


show a poverty of spirit such as } hope never to fall into. My 
sole reason for refusing it now is that I do not need it.” 

But for all his loving words and assurances Clementina could 
not stay her tears. She was not ready to weep, but now her 
eyes were as a fountain. . 

“See, then, for your tears are hard to bear, my daughter,” he 
said, “I will take one of these golden ministers, and if it has flown 
from me ere you come, seeing that, like the raven, it will not 
return if once I let it go, I will ask you for another. It may be 
God’s will that you should feed me for a time.” 

“Tike one of Elijah’s ravens,” said Clementina, with an 
attempted laugh that was really a sob. 

“ Like a dove whose wings are covered with .silver, and her 
feathers with yellow gold,” said the schoolmaster. . 

A moment of silence followed, broken only by Clementina’s 
failures in quieting herself. 

“To me,” he resumed, “the sweetest fountain of money is 
the hand of love, but a man has no right to take it from that 
fountain except he is in want of it. I am not. ‘True, I go 
somewhat bare, my lady ; but what is that when my Lord would 
have it so?” 

He opened again the bag, and slowly, reverentially indeed, 
drew from it one of the new sovereigns with which it was filled. 
He put it into a waistcoat pocket, and laid the bag on the table. 

“ But your clothes are shabby, sir,” said Clementina, looking 
at him with a sad little shake of the head. 

“ Are they?” he returned, and looked down at his lower gar- 
ments, reddening and anxious. ‘‘—I did not think they were 
more than a little rubbed, but they shine somewhat,” he said. — 
“They are indeed polished by use,” he went on, with a 
troubled little laugh ; “ but they have no holes yet—at least none 
that are visible,” he corrected. “If you tell me, my lady, if you 
honestly tell me that my garments ”—and he looked at the sleeve 
of his coat, drawing back his head from it to see it better—“ are 
unsightly, I will take of your money and buy me a new suit.” 

Over his coat-sleeve he regarded her, questioning. 

“Everything about you is beautiful!” she burst out. “ You 
want nothing but a body that lets the light through?” 

She took the hand still raised in his survey of his sleeve, 
pressed it to her lips, and walked, with even more than her 
wonted state, slowly from the room. He took the bag of gold 
from the table, and followed her down the stair. Her chariot ~ 
was waiting her at the door." He handed her in, and laid the bag - 
on the littie seat in front. 


ee ® 


ee ee pe eee 
is 4 , 7” a 


310 - THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


“Will you tell him to drive home,” she said, with a firm voice, 
and a smile which if anyone care to understand, let him read 
Spenser's fortieth sonnet. And so they parted. The coachman 
took the queer shabby un-London-like man for a fortune-teller his 
lady was in the habit of consulting, and paid homage to his power 
with the handle of his whip as he drove away. ‘The schoolmaster 
returned to his room, not to his Plato, not even to Saul of ‘Tarsus, 
but to the Lord himself. 


CHAPTER LXI. 
THOUGHTS. 


WHEN Malcolm took Kelpie to her stall the night of the arrival 
of Lady Bellair and her nephew, he was rushed upon by Demon, 
and nearly prostrated between his immoderate welcome and the 
startled rearing of the mare. The hound had arrived a couple 
of hours before, while Malcolm was out. -He wondered he had 
not seen him with the carriage he had passed, never suspecting 
he had had another conductress, or dreaming what his presence 
there signified for him. : 

I have not said much concerning Malcolm’s feelings with regard 
to Lady Clementina, but all this time the sense of her existence 
had been like an atmosphere surrounding and pervading his 
thought. He saw in her the promise of all he could desire to see 
in woman. Huis love was not of the blind-little-boy sort, but of 
a deeper, more exacting, keen-eyed kind, that sees faults where 
even a true mother will not, so jealous is it of the perfection of 
the beloved. But one thing was plain even to this seraphic 
dragon that dwelt sleepless in him, and there was eternal content 
in the thought, that such a woman, once started on the right way, 
would soon leave fault and weakness behind her, and become as 
one of the grand women of old, whose religion was simply. what 


‘religion is—life—neither more nor less than life. She would be 


a saint without knowing it, the only grand kind of sainthood. 
Whoever can think of religion as an addition to life, however 
glorious—a starry crown, say, set upon the head of humanity, is 
not yet the least in the kingdom of heaven. Whoever thinks of 
life as a something that could be without religion, is in deathly 
ignorance of both. Life and religion are one, or neither is any- 
thing : I will not say neither is growing to be anything. Religion 


THOUGH Paar e an 


is no way of life, no show of life, no observance of any sort. It 
is neither the food nor the medicine of being. It is life essential. 
To think otherwise is as if a man should pride himself on his 
honesty, or his parental kindness, or hold up his head amongst 
men because he never killed one: were he less than honest or 
kind or free from blood, he would yet think something of him- 
self! The man to whom virtue is but the ornament of character, 
something over and above, not essential to it, is not yet a man. 
If I say then, that Malcolm was always thinking about Lady 
Clementina when he was not thinking about something he Zad to 
think about, have I not said nearly enough on the matter? 
Should I ever dream of attempting to set forth what love is, 
in such a man for such a woman? ‘There are comparatively few 
that have more than the glimmer of a notion of what love means. 
God only knows how grandly, how passionately yet how calmly, 
how divinely the man and the woman he has made, might, may, 
shall love each other. One thing only I will dare to say: that 
the love that belonged to Malcolm’s nature was one through the 
very nerves of which the love of God must rise and flow and 
return, as its essential life. If any man think that such a love 
could no longer be the love of the man for the woman, he knows 


his own nature, and that of the woman he pretends or thinks he ~ 


adores, but in the darkest of glasses. 

Malcolm’s lowly idea of himself did not at all interfere with his 
loving Clementina, for at first his love was entirely dissociated 
from any thought of hers. When the idea—the mere idea of her 
loving him presented itself, from whatever quarter suggested, he 
turned from it with shame and self-reproof: the thought was in 
its own nature too unfit! That splendour regard him! From a 
social point of view there was of course little presumption in it. 
The Marquis of Lossie bore a name that might pair itself with 
any in the land; but Malcolm did not yet feel that the title made 
much difference to the fisherman. He was what he was, and 
that was something very lowly indeed. Yet the thought would at 
times dawn up from somewhere in the infinite matrix of thought, 
that perhaps, if he went to college, and graduated, and dressed 
like a gentleman, and did everything as gentlemen do, in short, 
claimed his rank, and lived as a marquis should, as well as a 


fisherman might,—then—then—was it not—might it not be with-- 


in the bounds of possibility—just within them—that the great- 
hearted, generous, liberty-loving Lady Clementina, groom as he 
had been, menza/ as he had heard himself called, and as, ere yet 
he knew his birth, he had laughed to hear, knowing that his 
service was true,—that she, who despised nothing human, would 


312 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


be neither disgusted nor contemptuous nor wrathful, if, from a _ 
great way off, at an awful remove of humility and worship, he 
were to wake in her a surmise that he dared feel towards her as 
he had never felt and never could feel towards any other? For 
would it not be altogether counter to the principles he had so 
often heard her announce and defend, to despise him because he 
had earned his bread by doing honourable work—work hearty, 
and up to the worth of his wages? Was she one to say and not 
see—to opine and not believe? or was she one to hold and not 
practise—to believe for the heart and not for the hand—to say / 
go, and not go—Z /ove, and not help? If such she were, then 
there were for him no further searchings of the heart upon her 
account ; he could but hold up her name in the common prayer 
for all men, only praying besides not to dream about her when he ~ 
slept. 

At length, such thoughts rising again and again, and ever 
accompanied by such reflections concerning the truth of her 
character, and by the growing certainty that her convictions were 
the souls of actions to be born them, his daring of belief in her 
strengthened until he began to think that perhaps it would be 
neither his early history, nor his defective education, nor his 
clumsiness, that would prevent her from listening to such words 
wherewith he burned to throw open the gates of his world, and 
pray her to enter and sit upoi. its loftiest throne—its loftiest throne 
but one. And with the thought he felt as if he must run to her, 
calling aloud that he was the Marquis of Lossie, and throw him- 
self at her feet. 3 

But the wheels of his thought-chariot, selfmoved, were rushing, 
and here was no goal at which to halt or turn !—for, feeling thus, 
where was his faith in her principles? How now was he treating 
the truth of her nature? where now were his convictions of the 
genuineness of her professions? Where were those principles, 
that truth, those professions, if after all she would listen to a 
marquis and would not listen to a groom? To suppose such a 
thing was to wrong her grievously. To herald his suit with his 
rank would be to insult her, declaring that he regarded her 
theories of humanity as wordy froth. And what a chance of 
proving her truth would he not deprive her of, if, as he approached 
her, he called on the marquis to supplement the man !—But what 
then was the man, fisherman or marquis, to dare even himself to 
such a glory as the Lady Clementina?—This much of a man at 
least, answered his waking dignity, that he could not condescend 
to be accepted as Malcolm, Marquis of Lossie, knowing he would — 

ave been rejected as Malcolm MacPhail, fisherman and groom — 


THOUGHTS. 313 
Accepted as marquis, he would for ever be haunted with the 
channering question whether she would have accepted him as 
groomre And if in his pain he were one day to utter it, and she 
in her honesty were to confess she would not, must she not then 
fall prone from her pedestal in his imagination? Could he then, 
in love for the woman herself, condescend as marquis to marry 
one who mzgf¢ not have married him as any something else he 
could honestly have been, under the all-enlightening sun ?—Ah, 
but again! was that fair to her yet? Might she not see in the 
marquis the truth and worth which the blinding falsehoods of 
society prevented her from seeing in the groom? Might not a 


lady—he tried to think of a lady in the abstract—might not a _ 


lady, in marrying a marquis, a lady to whom from her own 
position a marquis was just a man on the level, marry in him the 
man he was, and not the marquis he seemed? Most certainly, 
he answered: he must not be unfair.—Not the less however did 
he shrink from the thought of taking her prisoner under the 
shield of his marquisate, beclouding her nobility, and depriving 


_her of the rare chance of shining forth as the sun in the splendour ~ 


of womanly truth. No; he would choose the greater risk of 
losing her, for the chance of winning her greater. 

So far Malcolm got with his theories ; but the moment he began 
to think in the least practically, he recoiled altogether from the 
presumption. Under no circumstances could he ever have the 
courage to approach Lady Clementina with a thought of himself 
in his mind. How could he have dared even to raise her 
imagined eidolon for his thoughts to deal withal. She had never 
shown him personal favour. He could not tell whether she had 
listened to what he had tried to lay before her. He did not 
know that she had gone to hear his master; Florimel had never 
referred to their visit to Hope Chapel; his surprise would have 
equalled his delight at the news that she had already become as 
a daughter to the schoolmaster. 

And what had been Clementina’s thounts since learning that 


Florimel had not run away with her groom? It were hard to say — 


with completeness. Accuracy however may not be equally 


unattainable. Her first feeling was an utterly inarticulate, 


undefined pleasure that Malcolm was free to be thought about. 
She was clear next that it would be matter for honest rejoicing if 
the truest man she had ever met except his master, was not going 
to marry such an unreality as Florimel—one concerning whom, 
as things had been going of late, it was impossible to say that she 
was not more likely to turn to evil than to good. Clementina 
with all her generosity could not help being doubtful of a woman 


314 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


who could make a companion of such a man as Liftore,a mantc 
whom every individual particle of Clementina’s nature seemed for 


itself to object. But she was not yet past befriending. 

Then she began to grow more curious about Malcolm. She 
had already much real knowledge of him, gathered both from 
himself and from Mr Graham ;—as to what went to make the man, 
she knew him indeed, not thoroughly, but well ; and just there- 


fore, she said to herself, there were some points in his history and _— 


condition concerning which she had curtoszty. The principal of 
these was whether he might not be engaged to some young 
woman in his own station of life. It was not merely possible, but 
was it likely he could have escaped it? In the lower ranks 
of society, men married younger—they had no false aims to 
prevent them: that implied earlier engagements. On the other 
hand, was it likely that in a fishing village there would be 
any choice of girls who could understand him when he talked 
about Plato and the New Testament? If there was one however, 
that might be—worse?—Yes, worse; she accepted the word. 
Neither was it absolutely necessary in a wife that she should 
understand more of a husband than his heart. Many learned 


men had had mere housekeepers for wives, and been satisfied, at 


least never complained. And what did she know about the fishers, 
men or women—there were none at Wastbeach? For anything 
she knew to the contrary, they might all be philosophers together, 
and a fitting match for Malcolm might be far more easy to find 
amongst them than in the society to which she herself belonged, 
where in truth the philosophical element was rare enough. Then 
arose in her mind, she could not have told how, the vision, half 
logical, half pictorial, of a whole family of brave, believing, daring, 
saving fisher-folk, father, mother, boys and girls, each sacrificing 
to the rest, each sacrificed to by all, and all devoted to their 
neighbours. Grand it was and blissful, and the borders of the 
great sea alone seemed fit place for such beings amphibious 


of time and eternity! ‘Their very toils and dangers were but 
additional atmospheres to press their souls together! It was 


glorious ! Why had she been born an earl’s daughter,—never to 
look a danger in the face—never to have a chance of a true life 
—that is, a grand, simple, noble one?—Who then denied 
her the chance? Had she zo power to order her own steps, to 
determine her own being? Was she nailed to her rank? Or 
who was there that could part her from it? Was she a prisoner 
in the dungeons of the House of Pride? When the gates of 
paradise closed behind Adam and Eve, they had this consolation 


left, that “the world was all before them where to choose.” Was 


THOUGHTS. 315 


she not a free woman—without even a guardian to trouble her 
with advice? She had no excuse to act ignobly !—But had she 
any for being unmaidenly?—Would it then be—would it be 
a very unmaidenly thing if ? The rest of the sentence did 
not take even the shape of words. Butshe answered it neverthe- 
less in the words: ‘ Not so unmaidenly as presumptuous.” And 
alas there was little hope that Ze would ever presume to—? He 
was such a modest youth with all his directness and fearlessness ! 
If he had no respect for rank,—and that was—yes, she would say 
the word, Aopefu/—he had, on the other hand, the profoundest 
respect for the human, and she could not tell how that might, in 
the individual matter, operate. 

Then she fell a-thinking of the difference between Malcolm 
and any other servant she had everknown. She hated the serv7/e. 


She knew that it was false as well as low: she had not got so far , 


as to see that it was low through its being false. She knew that 
most servants, while they spoke with the appearance of respect in 
presence, altered their tone entirely when beyond the circle of the 
eye—theirs was eye-service—they were men-pleasers—they were 
__ servile. She had overheard her maid speak of her as Lady Clem, 


and that not without a streak of contempt in the tone. But here 


was a man who touched no imaginary hat while he stood in the 
presence of his mistress, neither swore at her in the stable-yard. 
He looked her straight in the face, and would upon occasion 
speak—not his mimd—but the truth to her. Even his slight 
mistress had the conviction that if one dared in his presence but 
utter her name lightly, whoever he were he would have to answer 
to him for it. What a lovely thing was true service !—Absolutely 
divine! But, alas, such a youth would never, could never dare 
offer other than such service! Were she even to encourage him 
as a maiden might, he would but serve her the better—would but 


embody his recggnition of her favour, in fervour of ministering — 


devotion.—Was it not a recognized law, however, in the relation 
of superiors and inferiors, that with regard to such mat: ers as well 
as others of no moment, the lady—? Ah, but! for her to take 
the initiative, would provoke the conclusion—as revolting to her 
as unavoidable to him—that she judged herself his superlor—so 
greatly his superior as to be absolved from the necessity of 


behaving to him on the ordinary footing of man and woman, | 


What a “ground to start from with a husband! The idea was AY 2 


hateful to her. She tried the argument that such a procedure © 


arrogated merely a superiority in social standing ; but it made her 


recoil from it the more. He was so immeasurably her superior, — 


that the poor little advantaye on her side vanished itke a candle 


516 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


in the surlight, and she laughed herself to scorn. “ Fancy,” she 


laughed, “a midge, on the strength of having wings, condescend- ~ 


ing to offer marriage toa horse!” It would argue the assumption 


of equality in other and more important things than rank, or at. 


least the confidence that her social superiority not only counter- 
balanced the difference, but left enough over to her credit to 


justify her initiative. And what a miserable fiction that money — 


and position had a right to the first move before greatness 


of living fact! that Aaving had the precedence of being! That 


Malcolm should imagine such fer judgment—No—let all go—let 


himself go rather! And then he might not choose to accept her — 


munificent offer! Or worse—far worse !—what if he should be 
tempted by rank and wealth, and, accepting her, be shorn of his 
glory and proved of the ordinary human type after all! A 
thousand times rather would she see the bright particular star 
blazing unreachable above her! What! would she carry it about 
a cinder in her pocket?—And yet if he could be “turned to 
a coal,” why should she go on worshipping him ?—alas ! the offer 


itself was the only test severe enough to try him withal, and if he 


proved a cinder, she would by the very use of the test be bound 
to love, honour, and obey her cinder. She could not well 
reject him for accepting her—neither could she marry him if he 
rose grandly superior to her temptations. No; he could be 
nothing to her nearer than the bright particular star. 

Thus went the thoughts to and fro in the minds of each. 
Neither could see the way. Both feared the risk of loss. Neither 
could hope greatly for gain. 


CHAPTER LXII. 
THE DUNE. 


HAVING put Kelpie up, and fed and bedded her, Malcolm took 


_ his way to the Seaton, full of busily anxious thought. Things had — 


taken a bad turn, and he was worse off for counsel than before. 
The enemy was in the house with his sister, and he had no 
longer any chance of judging how matters were going, as now he 
never rode out with her. But at least he could haunt the house. 
He would run therefore to his grandfather, and tell him that he 
was going to occupy his old quarters at the House that night. 
Returning directly and passing, as had been his custom, through 
the kitchen to ascend the small corkscrew stair the servants 


THE DUNE, : 317 


generally used, he encountered Mrs Courthope, who told him 
that her ladyship had given orders that her maid, who had come 
with Lady Bellair, should have his room. He was at once 
convinced that Florimel had done so with the intention of 
banishing him from the house, for there were dozens of rooms 
vacant, and many of them more suitable. It was a hard blow! 
How he wished for Mr Graham to consult! And yet Mr 
Graham was not of much use where any sort of plotting was 
wanted. He asked Mrs Courthope to let him have another 
room ; but she looked so doubtful that he withdrew his request, 
and went back to his grandfather. 

It was Saturday, and not many of the boats would go fishing, 
Findlay’s would not leave the harbour till Sunday was over, ana 
therefore Malcolm was free. But he could not rest, and would go 
line-fishing. 

“ Daddy,” he said, “I’m gaein oot to catch a haddick or sae to 
oor denner the morn. Ye micht jist sit doon upo’ ane o’ the 
Boar’s Taes, an’ tak a play o’ yer pipes. I'll hear ye fine, an’ it’ll 
_du me guid.” | 

The Boar’s Toes were two or three small rocks that rose out of 
the sand near the end of the dune. Duncan agreed right 
willingly, and Malcolm, borrowing some lines, and taking the 
Psyche’s dinghy, rowed out into the bay. 

The sun was down, the moon was up, and he had caught more 
fish than he wanted. His grandfather had got tired, and gone 
home, and the fountain of his anxious thoughts began to flow 
more rapidly. He must go ashore. He must go up to the 
House: who could tell what might not be going on there? He 
drew in his line, purposing to take the best of the fish to Miss 
Horn, and some to Mrs Courthope, as in the old days. 

The Psyche still lay on the sands, and he was rowing the 
dinghy towards her, when, looking round to direct his course, he 
thought he caught a olimpse of some one seated on the slope of 
the faa, Yes, there was some one there, sure enough. The 
old times rushed back on his memory: could it be Florimel ? 
Alas ! it was not likely she would now be wandering about alone! 
But if it were? ‘Then for one endeavour more to rouse her 
slumbering conscience! He would call up all the associations of 
the last few months she had spent in the place, and, with 
the spirit of her father, as it were, hovering over her, conjure her, 
in his name, to break with Liftore. 

He rowed swiftly to the Psyche—beached and drew up the 
dinghy, and climbed the dune. Plainly enough it was a lady 
who sat there. It might be one from the upper town, enjoyirg 


“pees ROOTS OF ‘LOSSIE. 


the lovely night; it mzght be Florimel, but how éould she have seh 
~ got away, or wished to get away from her newly arrived guests ? 2 
‘The voices of several groups of walkers came from the high road _ 
behind the dune, but there was no other figure to be seen all 
_ along the sands. He drew nearer. The lady did not move. pies «. 
_ it were Florimel, would she not know him as he came, and would te 


she wait for him ? 


He drew nearer still. His heart gave a throb. Could - 


be? Or was the moon weaving some hallucination in his — 


troubled brain? If it was a phantom, it was that of Lac 
Clementina ; if but modelled of the filmy vapours of the moon- — 
light, and the artist his own brain, the phantom was welcome as 
joy! His spirit seemed to soar aloft in the yellow air, and bane 5 
_ hovering over and around her, while his body stood rooted to the | 
spot, like one who fears by moving nigher to lose the lovely 
vision of a mirage. She sat motionless, her gaze on the sea. cc 3 
Malcolm bethought himself that she could not know him in his | 


is _ fisher-dress, and must take him for some rude fisherman staring — 


at her. He must go at once, or approach and address her. He 
_ came forward at once. ia om 
“ My lady !” he said. a 
She did not start. Neither did she speak. She did not even i 
_ turn her face. She rose first, then’ turned, and held out her 
hand. Three steps more, and he had it in his, and his eyes 
_ looked straight into hers. Neither spoke. The moon shone 
tull on Clementina’s face. There was no illumination fitter ee 
_ that face than the moonlight, and to Malcolm it was lovelier i: 
than ever. Nor was it any wonder it should seem so to him, 
_ for certainly never had the eyes in it rested on his with such. a 


lovely and trusting light in them. A moment she stood, then & 


- slowly sank upon the sand, and drew her skirts about her with aa) 
dumb show of invitation. The place where she sat was a little eS 
terraced hollow in the slope, forming a convenient seat. Mal- — 

colm saw but could not believe she actually made room for him — ia 
to sit beside her—alone with her in the universe. It was too | : 
much; he dared not believe it. And now by one of those — 
wondrous duplications which are not always at least born of the 
fancy, the same scene in which he had found Florimel thus 
seated on the slope of the dune, appeared to be passing again 


_ through Malcolm’s consciousness, only instead of Florimel was. Ss. 


Clementina, and instead of the sun was the moon. And crea-~ 

ture of the sunlight as Florimel was, bright and gay and hedaciaae 

- ful, she paled into a creature of the cloud beside this maiden. of © 
ing the moonlight, tall and stately, silent and soft and grand. — 


ras 3 aye 


iba! ~ 
et oie 


i A ‘, ar, he 


THE DUNE. 319 


Again she made a movement. This time he could not doubt 


her invitation. It was as if her soul made room in her unseen 


world for him to enter and sit beside her. But who could enter 
heaven in his work-day garments ? 

“Won't you sit by me, Malcolm?” seeing his more than hesi- 
tation, she said at last, with a slight tremble i in the voice that was 
music itself in his ears. 

**T have been catching fish, my lady,” he answered, “and my 
ciothes must be unpleasant. I will sit here.” 

He went a little lower on the slope, and laid himself down, 
leaning on his elbow. 

“To fresh water fishes smell the same as the sea-fishes, Mal. 
colm ?” she asked. 

“Indeed I am not certain, my lady. Why?” 

“ Because if they do, You remember what you said to me 
as we passed the saw- mill in the wood ?” 

It was by silence Malcolm showed he did remember. 

“ Does not this night remind you of that one at Wastbeach 


when we came upon you singing?” said Clementina. 


“Tt zs like it, my lady—now. But a little ago, before I saw 
you, I was thinking of that night, and thinking how different this 
was.” 

Again a moonfilled silence fell; and once more it was the 
lady who broke it. 

“ Do you know who are at the house ?” she asked. 

~“T do, my\lady,” he replied. 

=e | had not been there more than an hour or two,” she went 
on, “when they arrived. I suppose Florimel—Lady Lossie 
thought I would not come if she told me she expected them.” 

“« And would you have come, my lady?” 

“T cannot endure the earl.” 

“ Neither can I. But then I know more about him than your 
ladyship does, and I am miserable for my mistress.” 

It stung Clementina as if her heart had taken a beat back 
ward. But her voice was steadier than it had yet been as she 
returned— 

“Why should you be miserable for Lady Lossie ?” 


“T would die rather than see her marry that wretch,” he ~ 


answered. 
Again her blood stung her in the left side. 
“ You do not want her to marry, then?” she said. 


“TJ do,’ answered Malcolm, emphatically, “but not that — 


fellow.” 
“Whom then, if I may ask ?” ventured Clementina, trembling. 


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he > ONL AL Co Villian HE 5 A ; a ae 


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jaar * 


320 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIR. 


But Malcolm was silent. He did not feel it would be right to a 


say. Clementina turned sick at heart. 

“‘T have heard there is something dangerous about the moon- 
light,” she said. “I think it does not suit me to-night. I will 
go—home.” om 

Malcolm sprung to his feet and offered his hand. She did 
not take it, but rose more lightly, though more slowly than he. 

“Flow did you come from the park, my lady 2?” he asked. 


“ By a gate over there,” she answered, pointing. ‘‘I wandered — 


out after dinner, and the sea drew me.” 


“Tf your ladyship will allow me, I will take you a much 


nearer way back,” he said. 

“Do then,” she returned. 

He thought she spoke a little sadly, and set it down to her 
having to go back to her fellow-guesis. What if she should 


leave to-morrow morning! he thought. He could never then be — 


sure she had really been with him that night. He must then 
sometimes think ita dream. But oh, what a dream! He could 
thank God for it all his life, if he should never dream so again. 

They walked across the grassy sand towards the tunnel in 
silence, he pondering what he could say that might comfort her 
and keep her from going so soon. 

‘““My lady never takes me out with her now,” he said at 
length. 

He was going to add that, if she pleased, he could wait upon 
her with Kelpie, and show her the country. But then he saw 
that, if she were not with Florimel, his sister would be riding 
everywhere alone with Liftore. Therefore he stopped short. 

“And you feel forsaken—deserted ?” returned Clementina, 
sadly still. 7 

“ Rather, my lady.” 

They had reached the tunnel. It looked very black when he 
_ opened the door, but there was just a glimmer through the trees 
at the other end. 

“This is the valley of the shadow of death,” she said. “Do 
[ walk straight through ?” | 

“Yes, my lady. You will soon come out in the light again,” 
he said. | 

““ Are there no steps to fall down ?” she asked. 

“None, my lady. But I will go first it you wish.” 

“No, that would but cut off the little light I have,” she said. 
“Come beside me.” 

They passed through in silence, save for the rustle of her 


dress, and the dull echo that haunted their steps. In a few 


THE DUNE. aay aes 


moments they came out among the trees, but both continued 
silent. The still, thoughtful moon-night seemed to press them — 


close together, but neither knew that the other felt the same. 

They reached a point in the road where another step would 
bring them in sight of the house. - 

“ You cannot go wrong now, my lady,” said Malcolm. “If 
you please I will go no farther.” 

“Do you not live in the house 2?” she asked. 


“JT used to do as I liked, and could be there or with my 


grandfather. I did mean to be at the House to-night, but my 
lady has given my room to her maid.” 

“What! that woman Caley?” 

“I suppose so, my lady. I must sleep to-night in the village. 
If you could, my lady,” he added, after a pause, and faltered, 
hesitating. She did not help him, but waited. “Tf you could— 
if you would not be displeased at my asking you,” he resumed, 
“if you could keep my lady from going farther with that—I 
shall call him names if I go on!” 

“Tt is a strange request,” Clementina replied, after a moment's 
reflection. “I hardly know, as the guest of Lady Lossie, what 
answer I ought to make toit. One thing I will say, however, that, 
though you may know more of the man than I, you can hardly 
dislike him more. Whether I can interfere is another matter. 
Honestly, I do not think it would be of any use. But I do not 
say I will not. Good night.” . 

She hurried away, and did not again offer her hand. / 

Malcolm walked back through the tunnel, his heart singing 
and making melody. Oh how lovely, how more than lovely, 
how divinely beautiful she was! And so kind and friendly! 
Yet she seemed just the least bit fitful too. Something troubled 
her, he said to himself. But he little thought that he, and no 
one else, had spoiled the moonlight for her. He went home to 
glorious dreams—she to a troubled half wakeful night. Not 


until she had made up her mind to do her utmost to rescue > 


Florimel from Liftore, even if it gave her to Malcolm, did she 


find a moment’s quiet. It was morning then, but she fell fast 


asleep, slept late, and woke refreshed. 


Eee pees, eA 


322 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


CHAPTER LXIII. 
CONFESSION OF SIN. 


Mr Crathie was slowly recovering, but still very weak. He did 
not, after having turned the corner, get well so fast as his medical 
minister judged he ought, and the reason was plain to Lizzy, 
dimly perceptible to his wife : he was ill at ease. A man may have 
more mind and more conscience, and more discomfort in both 
or either, than his neighbours give him credit for. They may 
be in the right about him up to a certain point in his history, 


but then a crisis, by them unperceived, perhaps to them — 


inappreciable, arrived, after which the man to all eternity could 
never be the same as they had known him. Such a change 
- must appear improbable, and save on the theory of a higher opera- 
tive power, is improbable because impossible. But a man who 
has not created himself, can never secure himself against the 
inroad of the glorious terror of that Goodness which was able to 
utter him into being, with all its possible wrongs and repentances. 
The fact that a man has never, up to any point yet, been aware 
of aught beyond himself, cannot shut him out who is beyond 
him, when at last he means to enter. Not even the soul- 
benumbing visits of his clerical minister could repress the 
swell of the slow-mounting day-spring in the soul of the hard, 
commonplace, business-worshipping man, Hector Crathie. The 
hireling would talk to him kindly enough—of his illness, or of 
events of the day, especially those of the town and neighbour- 
hood, and encourage him with reiterated expression of the hope 
that ere many days they would enjoy a tumbler together as of old, 
but as to wrong done, apology to make, forgiveness to be sought, 
or consolation to be found, the dumb dog had not uttered a bark. 


The sources of the factor’s restless discomfort were now two; 


the first, that he had lifted his hand to women; the second, the 
old ground of his quarrel with Malcolm, brought up by Lizzy. 
All his life, since ever he had had business, Mr Crathie had 
prided himself on his honesty, and was therefore in one of the 
most dangerous moral positions a man could occupy—ruinous 
even to the honesty itself. Asleep in the mud, he dreamed 
himself awake on a pedestal. At best such a man is but perched 
on a needle point when he thinketh he standeth. Of him who 


prided himself on his honour I should expect that one day, in 


the long run it might be, he would do some vile thing. Not, 
probably, within the small circle of illumination around his 


CONFESSION OF SIN. — 39% 


wretched rushlight, but in the great region beyond it, of what to 
him is a moral darkness, or twilight vague, he may be or may 
become capable of doing a deed that will stink in the nostrils of 
the universe—and in his own when he knows it as itis. The 
honesty in which a man can pride himself must be a small one, 
for more honesty will ever reveal more defect, while perfect 
honesty will never think of itself at all. The limited honesty of 
the factor clave to the interests of his employers, and let the 
rights he encountered take care of themselves. Those he dealt 
with were to him rather as-enemies than friends, not enemies to 
be prayed for, but to be spoiled. Malcolm’s doctrine of honesty 
in horse-dealing was to him ludicrously new. His notion of 
honesty in that kind was to cheat the buyer for his master if he 
could, proud to write in his book a large sum against the name 
of the animal. He would have scorned in his very soul the idea 
of making a farthing by it himself through any business quirk 
whatever, but he would not have been the least ashamed if, having 
sold Kelpie, he had heard—let me say after a week of possession 
—that she had dashed out her purchaser’s brains. He would have 
been a little shocked, a little sorry perhaps, but nowise ashamed. 
“By this time,” he would have said, “the man ought to have 


been up to her, and either taken care of himself—or sold her 


again,” —to dash out another man’s brains instead ! 
That the bastard Malcolm, or the ignorant and indeed fallen 
fisher-girl Lizzy, should judge differently, nowise troubled him: 


what could they know about the rights and wrongs of business? _ 


The fact which Lizzy sought to bring to bear upon him, that our 
Lord would not have done such a thing, was to him no argument 


at all. He said to himself, with the superior smile of arrogated — 


common-sense, that “no mere man since the fall” could be 
expected to do like him; that he was divine, and had not to 
fight for a living ; that he set us an example that we might see 
what sinners we were ; that religion was one thing, and a very 
proper thing, but business was another, and a very proper thing 
also—with customs and indeed laws of its own far more determin- 
ate, at least definite, than those of religion, and that to mingle 
the one with the other was not merely absurd—it was irreverent 
and wrong, and certainly never intended in the Bible, which 
must surely be common sense. It was the Lzble always with 
him,—never ¢he will of Christ. But although he could dispose 
of the question thus satisfactorily, yet, as he lay ill, supine, with- 
out any distracting occupation, the thing haunted him. 

Now in his father’s cottage had lain, much dabbled in of the 
children, a certain boardless copy of the Pilgrim’s Progress 


a? 


‘ a @. 
ye MS OE eR ee Pee a 


324 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


round in the face and hollow in the back, in which, amongst 
other pictures was one of the Wicket-gate. This scripture of his 
childhood, given by inspiration of God, threw out, in one of his 
troubled and feverish nights, a dream-bud in the brain of the 
man. He saw the face of Jesus looking on him over the top of 
the Wicket-gate, at which he had been for some time knocking 
in vain, while the cruel dog barked loud from the enemy’s yard. 
But that face, when at last it came, was full of sorrowful 
displeasure. And in his heart he knew that it was because of a 
certain transaction in horse-dealing, wherein he had hitherto 


lauded his own cunning—adroitness, he considered it—and suc- 


cess. One word only he heard from the lips of the Man— 
“Worker of iniquity,”—and woke with a great start. From that 
moment truths dean to be facts to him. The beginning of the 
change was indeed very small, but every beginning is small, and 
every beginning is a creation. Monad, molecule, protoplasm, 
whatever word may be attached to it when it becomes appre- 
ciable by men, being then, however, many stages, I believe, 
upon its journey, beginning is an irrepressible fact ; and however 
far from good or humble even after many days, the man here 


began to grow good and humble. His dull unimaginative nature, _ 


a perfect lumber-room of the world and its rusting affairs, had 
received a gift in a dream—a truth from the lips of the Lord, 
remodelled in the brain and heart of the tinker of Elstow, and 
sent forth in his wondrous parable to be pictured and printed, 
and lie in old Hector Crathie’s cottage, that it might enter and 
lie in young Hector Crathie’s brain until he grew old and had 
done wrong enough to heed it, when it rose upon him in a 
dream, and had its way. Henceforth the claims of his neighbour 
began to reveal themselves, and his mind to breed conscientious 
doubts and scruples, with which, struggle as he might against it, 
a certain respect for Malcolm would keep coming and mingling 
—a feeling which grew with its returns, until, by slow changes, 
he began at length to regard him as the minister of God’s 
_vengeance—for his punishment,—and perhaps salvation—who 
could tell ? 

Lizzy’s nightly ministrations had not been resumed, but she 
often called, and was a good deal with him; for Mrs Crathie 
had learned to like the humble, helpful girl still better when she 
found she had taken no offence at being deprived of her post 
of honour by his bedside. One day, when Malcolm was seated, 
mending a net, among the thin grass and great red daisies of the 
links by the bank of the burn, where it crossed the sands from 
the Lossie grounds to the sea, Lizzy came up to him and said, 


“nn 


CONFESSION OF SIN. 325 

“The factor wad like to see ye, Ma’colm, as sune’s ye can 
gang till im.” 

She waited no reply. Malcolm rose and went. 

At the factor’s, the door was opened by Mrs Crathie herself, 
who, looking mysterious, led him to the dining-room, where she 
plunged at once into business, doing her best to keep down all 
manifestation of the profound resentment she cherished against 
him. Her manner was confidential, almost coaxing. 

“Ve see, Ma’colm,” she said, as if pursuing instead of com- 
mencing a conversation, “he’s some sore about the little frazcass 
between him ’an you. Jest make your apoalogies till im and tell 
77m you had a drop too much, and your soary for misbehavin’ 
yerself to wann sae much your shuperrior. Tell him that, 
Ma’colm, an’ there’s a half-croon to ye.” 

She wished much to speak English, and I have tried to 
represent the thing she did speak, which was neither honest 
Scotch nor anything like English. Alas! the good, pithy, old 
Anglo-saxon dialect is fast perishing, and a jargon of corrupt 
English taking its place. 

“ But, mem,” said Malcolm, taking no notice either of the 
coin or the words that accompanied the offer of it, “I canna lee. 
I wasna in drink, an’ I’m no sorry.” 

“Hoot!” returned Mrs Crathie, blurting out her Scotch fast 
enough now, “I’s warran’ ye can lee well eneuch whan ye ha’e 
occasion. ‘Tak’ yer siller, an’ du as I tell ye.” 

“Wad ye ha’e me damned, mem ?” 

Mrs Crathie gave a cry and held up her hands. She was too 
well accustomed to imprecations from the lips of her husband 
_ for any but an affected horror, but, regarding the honest word as 
a bad one, she assumed an air of injury. 

“Wad ye daur to sweir afore a leddy,” she exclaimed, shaking 
her uplifted hands in pretence of ghasted astonishment. 

“Tf Mr Crathie wishes to see me, ma’am,” rejoined Malcolm 
taking up the shield of English, “I am ready. If not, please 
allow me to go.” 

The same moment the bell whose rope was at the head of the - 
factor’s bed, rang violently, and Mrs Crathie’s importance 
collapsed. 

“Come this w’y,” she said, and turning led him up the stair 
to the room where her husband lay. 

Entering, Malcolm stood astonished at the change he saw 
upon the strong man of rubicund countenance, and his heart 
filled with compassion. ‘The factor was sitting up in bed, 
looking very white and worn and troubled. Even his nose had 


ekich side he wished it closed from. as 
“Ye was some sair upo’ me, Ma’colm,” he went on, srasniies 
the youth’s hand. af! 
_  “T doobt I was ower sair,” said Malcolm, who could hardly 
speak for a lump in his throat, 
“Weel, I deserved it. But eh, Ma’colm! I canna believe if 
was me: it bude to be the drink.” 
- ©ITt was the drink,” rejoined Malcolm ; “an’ eh sir! afone ye 
rise frae that bed, sweir to the great God ’at ye’ll never drink nae © 
_mair drams, nor onything’ ayont ae tum’ler at a sittin’.” 
“ T sweir't; I sweir’t, Ma’colm!” cried the factor. 5 
pult's easy to sweir't noo, sir, but whan re re uy again it'll be. 


ee almost involuntary prayer, « help this man to dud troth wl? 
thee.—An’ noo, Maister Crathie,” he resumed, “I’m yer servan’, 
ready to do onything I can. Forgi’e me, sir, for ee on ower 
sair.” | 


to have eae to ee <a 
“T thank ye frae mine,” answered Malcolm, and again they 3 
_ shook hands. 
| “But eh, Ma’colm, my man!” said the factor, “hoo will I 
ever shaw my face again?” ; 
“Fine that!” returned Malcolm, eagerly. “ Fowk’s. terrible ap 
- guid-natur’d whan ye alloo ‘at ye’re i’ the wrang. I do believe — 
’at whan a man confesses till ’s neebour, an’ says he’s sorry, he 
thinks mair o’ ’im nor afore he did it. Ve see we a’ ken we ha’ 
dune wrang, but we ha’ena a’ confessed. An’ it’s a queer thing, 
but a man’ll think it gran’ o’’s neebour to confess, whan a’ the 
_ time there’s something he winna repent o’ himsel’ for fear o’ the 
shame o’ ha’ein’ to confess ’t. To me, the shame lies in zo con- — 
fessin’ efter ye ken ye’re wrang. Ye'll Bee, sir, the fshorfowk } 
ill min’ what ye say to them a heap better noo.’ i xs 
“Div ye railly think it, Ma’colm?” Slee the en) with a 
flush. eo 
_ “T div that, sir. Only whan ye prow better, gien ye ‘y alloo” i) 
Mme to say’t, sir, ye maunna lat Sawtan temp’ ye to think ’at this 
same repentin’ was but a wakeness o’ the flesh, an’ no an enlicht _ 
enment oO. the speérit.’* F 
LS te mysel up till ’t,” cried the factor, eagerly. Gan; ih 
an’ tell them 7 my name, ’at I tak’ back ilka scart 0’ a nottice | 
_ €yer gave ane o’ them to quit, only we maun ha’e nae mai 


of 


A VISITATION, — ee, 


-stan’in’ o’ honest fowk ’at comes to bigg herbours till them.— 
Div ye think it wad be weel ta’en gien ye tuik a poun’-nott the 
piece to the twa women ?” 

“JT wadna du that, sir, gien I was you,” answered Malcolm. 
“For yer ain sake, I wadna to Mistress Mair, for naething wad 
gar her tak’ it—it wad only affront her; an’ for Nancy Tacket’s 
sake, I wadna to her, for as her name so’s her natur’: she wad 
not only tak it, but she wad lat ye play the same as aften ’s ye 
likit for less siller. Ye’ll ha’e mony a chance o’ makin’ ’t up to 
them baith, ten times ower, afore you an’ them pairt, sir.” 

“TJ maun lea’ the cuintry, Ma’colm.” 

“Deed, sir, yell du naething o’ the kin’. The fishers them- 
sel’s wad rise, no to lat ye, as they did wi’ Blew Peter! As 
sune’s yere able to be aboot again, ye’ll see plain eneuch ’at 
there’s no occasion for onything like that, sir. Portlossie wadna 
ken ’tsel’ wantin’ ye. Jist gie me a commission to say to the 
twa honest women ’at ye’re sorry for what ye did, an’ that’s a’ ’at 
need be said ’atween you an’ them, or their men aither.,” 

The result showed that Malcolm was right ; for, the very next 
_ day, instead of looking for gifts from him, the two injured women 
came to the factor’s door, first Annie Mair, with the offering of a 
few fresh eggs, scarce at the season, and after her Nancy Tacket, 
with a great lobster. 


CHAPTER LXIV. 
A VISITATION. 


MALcoLm’s custom was, first, immediately after breakfast, to give 
Kelpie her airing—and a tremendous amount of air she wanted 
for the huge animal furnace of her frame, and the fiery spirit that 
kept it alight; then, returning to the Seaton, to change the dress . 
of the groom, in which he always appeared about the house, lest 
by any chance his mistress should want him, for that of the — 
fisherman, and help with the nets, or the boats, or in whatever 
was going on. As often as he might he did what seldom a man 
would—went to the long shed where the women prepared the 
fish for salting, took a knife, and wrought as deftly as any of 
them, throwing a marvellously rapid succession of cleaned 
herrings into the preserving brine. It was no wonder he was a 
favourite with the women. Although, however, the place was 


328 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. — 


malodorous and the work dirty, I cannot claim so much for — 


Malcolm as may at first appear to belong to him, for he had 
been accustomed to the sight and smell from earliest childhood. 


Still, as I say, it was work the men would not do. He had such — 


a chivalrous humanity that it was misery to him to see man or ~ 
woman at anything scorned, except he bore a hand himself. He 
did it half in love, half in terror of being unjust. 


He had gone to Mr Crathie in his fisher clothes, thinking it 


better the sick man should not be reminded of the cause of his 
illness more forcibly than could not be helped. The nearest 
way led past a corner of the house overlooked by one of the 


drawing-room windows, Clementina saw him, and, judging by 


his garb that he would probably return presently, went out in the 
hope of meeting him; and as he was going back to his net by 
the sea-gate, he caught sight of her on the opposite side of the 
burn, accompanied only by a book. He walked through the’ 
burn, climbed the bank, and approached her. 

It was a hot summer afternoon. The burn ran dark and 
brown and cool in deep shade, but the sea beyond was glowing 
in light, and the laburnum-blossoms hung like cocoons of sun- 
beams. No breath of air was stirring; no bird sang; the sun 
was burning high in the west. Clementina stood waiting him, 
like a moon that could hold her own in the face of the sun. 

“Malcolm,” she said, “I have been watching all day, but have 
not found a single opportunity of speaking to your mistress as 
you wished. But to tell the truth, I am not sorry, for the more 
I think about it, the less I see what to say. ‘That another does 
not like a person, can have little weight with one who does, and 
I know nothing against him. I wish you would release me from 
my promise. It is such an ugly thing to speak to one’s hostess 
to the disadvantage of a fellow-guest !” | 

“T understand,” said Malcolm. “It was not a right thing to 
ask of you. I beg your pardon, my lady, and give you back 
your promise, if such you count it. But indeed I do not think 
you promised.” 

“Thank you, I would rather be free. Had it been before 
you left London—. —lLady Lossie is very kind, but does not 
seem to put the same confidence in me as formerly. She and 
Lady Bellair and that man make a trio, and I am left outside. 
I almost think I ought to go. Even Caley is more of a friend 
than lam. I cannot get rid o: the suspicion that something not 
right is going on. There seems a bad air about the place. 


Those two are playing their game with the inexperience of that 
poor child, your mistress.” 


A VISITATION. esa ials 329) 


“T know that very well, my lady, but I hope yet they will not 
win,” said Malcolm. 

By this time they were near the tunnel. | 

“ Could you let me through to the shore?” asked Clementina. 

“Certainly, my lady.—I wish you could see the boats go out. 


From the Boar’s Tail it is a pretty sight. They will all be start- 


ing together as soon as the tide turns.” 

Thereupon Clementina began questioning him about the night- 
fishing, and Malcolm described its pleasures and dangers, and 
the pleasures of its dangers, in such fashion that Clementina 
listened with delight. He dwelt especially on the feeling almost 
of disembodiment, and existence as pure thought, arising from 
the all-pervading clarity and fluidity, the suspension, and the 
unceasing motion. 

“YT wish I could once feel like that,” exclaimed Clementina. 
“Could I not go with you—for one night—just for once, Mal- 
colm ?” 

“ My lady, it would hardly do, I am afraid. If you knew the 


discomforts that must assail one unaccustomed—lI cannot tell— © 


but I doubt if you would go. All the doors to bliss have their 
defences of swamps and thorny thickets through which alone 
they can be gained. You would need to be a fisherman’s sister 
—or wife, I fear, my lady, to get through to this one.” 

Clementina smiled gravely, but did not reply, and Malcolm 
too was silent, thinking. 

“Yes,” he\ said at last ; “I see how we can manage it. You 
shall have a boat for your own use, my lady, and———” 

“But I want to see just what you see, and to feel, as nearly as 
I may, what you feel. I don’t want a downy, rose-leaf notion of 
the thing. I want to understand what you fishermen encounter 
and experience.” 

“We must make a difference though, my lady. Look what 
clothes, what boots we fishers must wear to be fit for our work ! 
But you shall have a true idea as far as it reaches, and one that 
will go a long way towards enabling you to understand the rest. 
You shall go in a real fishing-boat, with a full crew and all the 


nets, and you shall catch real herrings; only you shall not be 


out longer than you please.—But there is hardly time to arrange 
for it to-night, my lady.” 

“ To-morrow then ?” 

“Yes, I have no doubt I can manage it then.” 

“Oh, thank you!” said Clementina. “It will be a great 
delight.” 

‘And now,” suggested Malcolm, “would you like to go 


330 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIF. 


through the village, and see some of the cottages, and how the “oe 


fishers live ?” 

“Tf they would not think me inquisitive, or intrusive,” 
answered Clemenitina. 

“There is no danger of that,” rejoined Malcolm. “If it were 


my Lady Bellair, to patronize, and deal praise and blame, as if 
what she calls poverty were fault and childishness, and she their — 


spiritual as well as social superior, they might very likely be what 


she would call rude. She was here once before, and we have 


some notion of her about the Seaton. I venture to say there is 


not a woman in it who is not her moral superior, and many of © 


them are her superiors in intellect and true knowledge, if they are 
not so familiar with London scandal. Mr Graham says that in 
the kingdom of heaven every superior is a ruler, for there to rule 
is to raise, and a man’s rank is his power to uplift.” 

“1 would I were in the kingdom of heaven, if it be such as 
you and Mr Graham take it for,” said Clementina. 


“You must be in it, my lady, or you couldn’t wish it to be such — 
y lady, or y 


as it is,’ 
“Can one then be in it, and yet seem to be out of it, Mal- 
colm?” 
_ “So many are out of it that seem to be in it, my lady, that one 
might well imagine it the other way with some. ” 
“Are you not uncharitable, Malcolm P” 


‘Our Lord speaks of many coming up to his door confident of: — B: é 


admission, whom yet he sends from him. Faith is obedience, — 


not confidence.” 
“Then I do well to fear,” 


“Yes, my lady, so long as your fear makes you knock the 


louder.” 
“But if I be in, as you say, how can I go on knocking ?” 
“There are a thousand more doors to knock at after you are 


in, my lady. No one content to stand just inside the gate will Re 


be inside it long. But it is one thing to be in, and another to be 
satisfied that we are in. Such a satisfying as comes from our own 
feelings may, you see from what our Lord says, be a false one. 
It is one thing to gather the conviction for ourselves, and another 


to have it from God. What wise man would have it before he oe 


gives it? He who does what his Lord tells him, is in the king- © 


dom, if every feeling of heart or brain told him he was out. And 
his Lord will see that he knows it one day. But I do not think, 
my lady, one can ever be quite sure, until the king himself has 


come in to sup with him, and has let him know that he is alto- 


gether one with him.” 


A VISITATION. 331 


During the talk of which this is the substance, they reached 
the Seaton, and Malcolm took her to see his grandfather. 

“Taal and faer and chentle and coot!” murmured the old man 
as he held her hand for a moment in his. With a start of ‘sus- 
picion he dropped it, and cried out in alarm—*“She'll not pe a 
Cam’ell, Malcolm?” 

“Na, na, daddy—far frae that,” answered Malcolm. 

“Then my laty will pe right welcome to Tuncan’s heart,” he 
replied, and taking her hand again led her to a chair. | 

When they left, she expressed herself charmed with the piper, 
but when she learned the cause of his peculiar behaviour at first, 
she looked grave, and found his feeling difficult to understand. 

They next visited the Partaness, with whom she was far more 
amused than puzzled. But her heart was drawn to the young 
woman who sat in a corner, rocking her child in its wooden 
cradle, and never lifting her eyes from her needle-work: she 
knew her for the fisher-girl of Malcolm’s picture. 

From house to house he took her, and where they went, they 
were welcomed. If the man was smoking, he put away his pipe, 
and the woman left her work and sat down to talk with her. 
They did the honours of their poor houses in a homely and 
dignified fashion. Clementina was delighted. But Malcolm told 
her he had taken her only to the best houses in the place to begin 
with. The village, though a fair sample of fishing villages, was 
no ex-sample, he said: there were all kinds of people in it as in 
every other. It was a class in the big life-school of the world, 
whose special masters were the sea and the herrings. 

“What would you do now, if you were lord of the place?” 
asked Clementina, as they were walking back by the sea-gate; 
*¢—-T mean, what would be the first thing you would do?” 

“As it would be my business to know my tenants that I might 


rule them,” he answered, “I would first court the society and 


confidence of the best men among them. I should be in no 


hurry to make changes, but would talk openly with them, and try ~ aed 


to be worthy of their confidence. Of course I would see a little 
better to their houses, and improve their harbour: and I would 
build a boat for myself that would show them a better kind ; but 
my main hope for them would be the same as for myself—the 
knowledge of him whose is the sea and all its store, who cares 
for every fish in its bosom, but for the fisher more than many 
herrings. I would spend my best efforts to make them follow 
him whose first servants were the fishermen of Galilee, for with 
all my heart I believe that that Man holds the secret of life, and 
that only the man who obeys him can ever come to know the 


THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. ae 


mh, God who is the root and crown of our being, and whom to know vi 
is freedom and bliss.” | 
A pause followed. } 
_ “But do you not sometimes find it hard to remember God all 
7 through your work?” asked Clementina. 
- €Not very hard, my lady. Sometimes I wake up to find that 
_ T have been in an ‘evil mood and forgetting him, and then life is 
hard until I get near him again. But it is not my work that 
_ makes me forget him. When I go a-fishing, I go to catch God’s 
- fish; when I-take Kelpie out, I am teaching one of God’s wild 
as creatures ; when I read the Bible or Shakspere, I am listening 
_ to the word of God, uttered in each after its kind. When the fa 
_ wind blows on my face, what matter that the chymist pullsitto 
pieces! He cannot hurt it, for his knowledge of it cannot make 
my feeling of it a folly, so long as he cannot pull that to pieces 
with his retorts and crucibles: it is to me the wind of him who 
makes it blow, the sign of something in him, the fit emblem of 
his spirit, that breathes into my spirit the breath of life. When Mr sa 
Graham talks to me, it is a prophet come from God that teaches 
me, as certainly as if his fiery chariot were waiting to carry him 
back when he had spoken; for the word he utters at once 
_ humbles and uplifts my soul, telling it that God isallinall and 
_- my God—that the Lord Christ i is the truth and thelife,andthe 
way home to the Father.” a 
After a little pause, Be. 
_ “ And when you are talking to a rich, ignorant, proud lady?” a 
said Clementina, ‘‘—what do you feel then?” i 
“That I would it were my lady Clementina instead,” answered - 
Malcolm with a smile. Ree 
_ She held her peace. — 
_ ~-When he left her, Malcolm hurried to Scaurnose and Bee 4 
_- with Blue Peter for his boat and crew the next night. Returning 


* 


to his grandfather, he found a note waiting him from Mrs Court 

hope, to the effect that, as Miss Caley, her ladyship’s maid, had 
_ preferred another room, there was no reason Nh if he pleased Jam 
he should not re-occupy his own. . 

ee: HAO aa 

es, 


mr 
. 

2 * 
| 


2 etek 
A toe 
ye 

Ss 


THE EVE OF THE CRISIS. 333 


CHAPTER LXV. 
THE EVE OF THE CRISIS. 


Ir was late in the sweetest of summer mornings when the Partan’s _ 
boat slipped slowly back with a light wind to the harbour of 
Portlossie. Malcolm did not wait to land the fish, but having 
changed his clothes and taken breakfast with Duncan who was 
always up early, went to look after Kelpie. When he had done 
with her, finding some of the household already in motion, he 
went through the kitchen, and up the old cork-screw stone stair to 
his room to have the sleep he generally had before his breakfast. 
Presently came a knock at his door, and there was Rose. 

The girl’s behaviour to Malcolm was much changed. The 
conviction had been strengthened in her that he was not what he 
seemed, and she regarded him now with a vague awe. She 
looked this way and that along the passage, with fear in her eyes, 
then stepped timidly inside the: room to tell him, in a hurried 
whisper, that she had seen the woman who gave her the poisonous 
philtre, talking to Caley the night before, at the foot of the bridge, 
after everybody else was in bed. She had been miserable till she 
could warn him. He thanked her heartily, and said he would be © 
on his guard ; he would neither eat nor drink in the house. She 
crept softly away. He secured the door, lay down, and trying to 
think fell asleep. 

When he woke his brain was clear. The very next day, whether 
Lenorme came or not, he would declare himself. That night he 
would go fishing with Lady Clementina, but not one day longer 


would he allow those people to be about his sister. Who could 


tell what might not be brewing, or into what abyss, with the 
help of her /rzends, the woman Catanach might not plunge 
Florimel ? | 

He rose, took Kelpie out, and had a good gallop. On his way 
back he saw in the distance Florimel riding with Liftore. The 
earl was on his father’s bay mare. He could not endure the sight, 
and dashed home at full speed. 

Learning from Rose that Lady Clementina was in the flower- 
garden, he found her at the swan-basin, feeding the gold and 
silver fishes. An under-gardener who had been about the place 
for thirty years, was at work not far off. The light splash of the 
falling column which the marble swan spouted from its upturned 
beak, prevented her from hearing his approach until he was close. 


n4ik< «THE MARQUIS ‘OF LOSSIE. +. 


_ behind het. She turned, and her fair face took the flush of a — 
__. white rose, a 
- “Mylady,” he said; “I have got everything arranged forto-night.” ng 
«And when shall we go?” she asked eagerly. 


your dinner hour.” 

“Tt is of no consequence.—But could you not make it half an 
hour later, and then I should not seem rude?” , 
«Make it any hour you please, my lady, so long as the tide is 
falling.” 

“Let it be eight then, and dinner will be almost over. They 


At the turn of the tide, about half-past seven. But sevenis 


will not miss me after that. Mr Cairns is going to dine with —- 


them. I think, except Liftore, I never disliked a man so much. 
ee : Shall I tell them where I am going ? é 
~~ «Yes, my lady. It will be better—They will look amazed— 
for all their breeding !” é 
“Whose boat is it, that I may be able to tell them if they 
- should ask me?” 
“Joseph Mair’s. He and his wife will come and fetch you. 


to go in your boat, my lady ?” 
i “T couldn’t go without you, Malcom.” 


- you go without me! Not that there is anything to fear, or that 
_ I could make it the least safer ; but somehow it seems my bust 
ness to take care of you.” 


Annie Mair will go with us—if I may say ws: will you allow me _ ie 


“Thank you, my lady. Indeed I don’t know how I could let : 


“Like Kelpie?” said Clementina, with a merrier smile thanhe 


had ever seen on her face before. 

. : oy “Yes, my lady,” answered Malcolm; “‘—if to do for you all — 
and the ‘best you will permit me to do, be to take care of you 
like Kelpie, then so it is.” . 
Clementina gave a little sigh. ay 
“Mind you don’t scruple, my lady, to give what orders you ~ 

please. It will be your fishing-boat for to-night.” 
- Clementina bowed her head in acknowledgment. 


? ~ 


And now, my lady,” Malcolm went on, “just look about you _ 3 
_ for a moment. See this great vault of heaven, full of golden 


light raining on trees and flowers—every atom ‘of air shining. 
Take the whole into your heart, that you may feel the difference _ 
at night, my lady—when the stars, and neither sun nor moon, _ 
__will be in the sky, and all the flowers they shine on will be their 


ae 


own flitting, blinking, swinging, shutting and opening reflections 


in the swaying floor of the ocean,—when the heat will be gone on : 
and the air clean and clear as the thoughts of a saint.” i. 


‘THE EVE OF THE CRISIS. 335 


Clementina did as he said, and gazed above and around her. 


on the glory of the summer day overhanging the sweet garden, 
and on the flowers that had just before been making her heart 
ache with their unattainable secret. But she thought with her- 
self that if Malcolm and she but shared it with a common heart 
as well as neighboured eyes, gorgeous day and ethereal night, o1 
snow-clad wild and sky of stormy blackness, were alike welcome 
to her spirit. 


As they talked they wandered up the garden, and had drawn 


near the spot where, in the side of the glen, was hollowed the 
cave of the hermit. They now turned towards the pretty arbour 
of moss that covered its entrance, each thinking the other led, 
but Malcolm not without reluctance. For how horribly and 
unaccountably had he not been shaken, the only time he ever 
entered it, at the sight of the hermit! The thing was a foolish 
wooden figure, no doubt, but the thought that it still sat over its 
book in the darkest corner of the cave, ready to rise and advance 
with outstretched hand to welcome its visitor, had, ever since 
then, sufficed to make him shudder. He was on the point of 
warning Clementina lest she too should be worse than startled, 
- when he was arrested by the voice of John Jack, the old 
gardener, who came stooping after them, looking a sexton of 
flowers. 

““Ma’colm, Ma’colm!” he cried, and crept up wheezing. 
““—TI beg yer leddyship’s pardon, my leddy, but I wadna hae 
Ma’colm lat ye gang in there ohn tellt ye what there is inside.” 

“Thank you, John. I was just going to tell my lady,” said 
Malcolm. 

‘* Because, ye see,” pursued John, “I was ae day here i’ the 
gairden—an’ I was jist graftin’ a bonny wull rose-buss wi’ a Hec- 
tor o’ France—an’ it grew to be the bonniest rose-buss in a’ the 
haill gairden—whan the markis, no the auld markis, but my 
leddy’s father, cam’ up the walk there, an’ a bonny young leddy 
wi his lordship, as it micht be yersel’s twa—an’ I beg yer pardon, 


my leddy, but I’m an auld man noo, an’ whiles forgets the differs 
’atween fowk—an’ this yoong leddy ’at they ca’d Miss Cam’ell— 


ye kenned her yersel’ efterhin’, I daursay, Ma’colm-—he was 
unco ta’en with her, the markis, as ilka body cud see ohn luikit 
that near, sae ’at some said ’at hoo he hed no richt to gang on 
wi’ her that gait, garrin’ her believe, gien he wasna gaein’ to 
merry her. ‘That’s naither here nor there, hooever, seein’ it a? 
cam’ to jist naething ava’, Sae up they gaed to the cave yon’er, 
as I was tellin’ ye; an’ hoo it was, was a won’er, for I’s warran’ 
she had been aboot the place near a towmon (¢we/vemonth), but 


Flamer Se 


330 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE 


never had she been intil that cave, and kenned no more nor the 
bairn unborn what there was in ’t. An’ sae whan the airemite, 


as the auld minister ca’d him, though what for he ca’d a muckle 
block like yon an azry mite, ’m sure I never cud fathom—whan 
he gat up, as I was sayin’, an’ cam’ foret wi’ his han’ oot, she gae 
a scraich ’at jist garred my lugs dirl, an’ doon she drappit, an’ 
there, whan I ran up, was she lyin’ i’ the markis his airms, as 
white ’s a cauk eemege, an’ it was lang or he brought her till 
hersel’, for he wadna lat me rin for the hoosekeeper, but sent 


me fleein’ to the f'untain for watter, an’ gied me a gowd guinea. 


to haud my tongue aboot it a. Sae noo, my leddy, ye’re fore- 
warnt, an’ no ill can come to ye, for there’s naething to be fleyt 
at whan ye ken what’s gauin’ to meet ye.” 

Malcolm had turned his head aside, and now moved on with- 


out remark. Struck by his silence, Clementina looked up, and_ 


saw his face very pale, and the tears standing in his eyes. 
“You must tell me the sad story, Malcolm,” she murmured. 
“TI could scarcely understand a word the old man said.” 


He continued silent, and seemed struggling with some emo- 


tion. But when they were within a few paces of the arbour, he 
stopped short, and said— 


“I would rather not go in there to-day. You would oblige 


me, my lady, if you would not go.” 

She looked up at him again, with wonder but more concern in 
her lovely face, put her hand on his arm, gently turned him 
away, and walked back with him to the fountain. Not a word 
more did she say about the matter. 


CHAPTER LXVI. 
SEA. 


THE evening came; and the company at Lossie House was still 
seated at table, Clementina heartily weary of the vapid talk that 
had been going on all through the dinner, when she was informed 
that a fisherman of the name of Mair was at the door, accom- 
panied by his wife, saying they had an appointment with her. 


She had already acquainted her hostess, when first they sat 


down, with her arrangements for going a-fishing that night, and 
much foolish talk and would-be wit had followed; now, when 
she rose and excused herself, they all wished her a pleasant even: 


. = o, > 
oS 


nee. ee ee 
: 


SEA. : . 337 


-. ing, in a tone indicating the conviction that she little knew what 


she was about, and would soon be longing heartily enough to be 
back with them in the drawing-room, whose lighted windows she 
would see from the boat. But Clementina hoped otherwise, 
hurriedly changed her dress, hastened to join Malcolm’s messen- 
gers, and almost in a moment had “made the two child-like 
people at home with her, by the simplicity and truth of her 
manner, and the directness of her utterance. They had not 


talked with her five minutes before they said in their hearts that 


here was the wife for the marquis if he could get her. 

«She's jist like ane o’ oorsel’s,” whispered Annie to her hus- 
band on the first opportunity, ‘only a hantle better an’ 
bonnier.” ! 

They took the nearest way to the harbour—through the town, 
and Lady Clementina and Blue Peter kept up a constant talk 
as they went. All in the streets and at the windows stared to 
see the grand lady from the House walking between a Scaur- 
nose fisherman and his wife, and chatting away with them as if 
they were all fishers together. | 

““What’s the wordle comin’ till!” cried Mrs Mellis, the draper’s 
wife, as she saw them pass. 

‘¢T’m glaid to see the yoong wuman—an’ a bonny lass she is] 
—in sic guid company,” said Miss Horn, looking down from the 
opposite side of the way. “I’m thinkin’ the han’ o’ the markis 
"ill be i’ this, no’ !” 

All was ready to receive her, but in the present bad state of 
the harbour, and the tide having now ebbed a little way, the 
boat could not get close either to quay or shore. Six of the 
crew were on board, seated on the thwarts with their oars 
shipped, for Peter had insisted on a certain approximation to 
man-of-war manners and discipline for the evening, or at least 
until they got to the fishing ground. The shore itself formed 
one side of the harbour, and sloped down into it, and on:the 
sand stood Malcolm with a young woman, whom Clementina 
recognised at once as the girl she had seen at the Findlays’. 

“ My lady,” he said, approaching, “would you do me the 
favour to let Lizzy go with you. She would like to attend your 
ladyship, because, being a fisherman’s daughter, she is used to. 
the sea, and Mrs Mair is not so much at home upon it, being a 
farmer’s daughter from inland.” 

Receiving Clementina’s thankful assent, he turned to Lizzy 
and said— 

‘Min’ ye tell my lady what rizon ye ken whaurfor my mistress 
at the Hoose sudna be merried upo’ Lord Liftore—him ’at was 

+f 


338 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


Lord Meikleham. Ve may speyk to my lady there as ye wad to a: 
mysel’—an’ better, haein’ the hert o’ a wuman.” os 


Lizzy blushed a deep red, and dared but the glimmer of a 


glance at Clementina, but there was only shame, no annoyance | 


in her face. 

“Ve winna repent it, Lizzy,’ 
away. 

He cherished a faint hope that, if she heard or guessed Lizzy’s 
story, Clementina might yet find some way of bringing her 
influence to bear on his sister even at the last hour of her chance 


, 


concluded Malcolm, and turned 


—from which, for her sake, he shrunk the more the nearer it 


drew. Clementina held out her hand to Lizzy, and again 
accepted her offered service with kindly thanks, 

Now Blue Peter, having been ship’s-carpenter in his day, had 
constructed a little poop in the stern of his craft; thereon Mal- 
colm had laid cushions and pillows and furs and blankets from 


the Psyche,—a grafting of Cleopatra’s galley upon the rude fish- — 


ing-boat—and there Clementina was to repose in state. Mal- 
colm gave a sign: Peter took his wife in his arms, and walking 


through the few yards of water between, lifted her into the boat, 


which lay with its stern to the shore. Malcolm and Clementina 


turned to each other: he was about to ask leave to do her the — 


same service, but she spoke before him. 
* Put Lizzy on board first,” she said. 
He obeyed, and when, returning, he again approached her— 
“Are you able, Malcolm?” she asked. ‘‘I am very heavy.” 
He smiled for all reply, took her in his arms like a child, and 
had placed her on the cushions before she had time to realize 
the mode of her transference. ‘Then taking a stride deeper into 


the water, he scrambled on board. The same instant the men — 
gave way. ‘They pulled carefully through the narrow jaws of 


the little harbour, and away with quivering oar and falling tide, 
went the boat, gliding out into the measureless north, where the 
horizon was now dotted with the sails that had preceded it. 

No sooner were they afloat than a kind of enchantment en- 
wrapped and possessed the soul of Clementina. Everything 


seemed all at once changed utterly. The very ends of the 


harbour piers might have stood in the Divina Commedia instead 
of the Moray Frith. Oh that wonderful look everything wears 


when beheld from the other side! Wonderful surely will this 


world appear—strangely more, when, become children again by 
being gathered to our fathers—joyous day! we turn and gaze back 
upon it from the other side! I imagine that, to him who has 


overcome it, the world, in very virtue of his victory, will show. 


SEA, 339 


itself the lovely and pure thing it was created—for he will see 


_ through the cloudy envelope of his battle to the living kernel 


below. The cliffs, the rocks, the sands, the dune, the town, the 


_ very clouds that hung over the hill above Lossie House, were in 


strange fashion transfigured. To think of people sitting behind 
those windows while the splendour and freedom of space with 
all its divine shows invited them—lay bare and empty to them! 
Out and still out they rowed and drifted, till the coast began to 


9pen up beyond the headlands on either side. There a light 


breeze was waiting them. Up then went three short masts, and 
three dark brown sails shone red in the sun, and Malcolm came 
aft, over the great heap of brown nets, crept with apology across 
the poop, and got down into a little well behind, there to sit and 
steer the boat ; for now, obedient to the wind in its sails, it went 
frolicking over ‘the sea. 

The bonnie Annie bore a picked crew; for Peter’s boat was 


to him a sort of church, in which he would not with his will carry 


any Jonah fleeing from the will of the lord of the sea. And that 
boat’s crew did not look the less merrily out of their blue eyes, 


or carry themselves the less manfully in danger, that they believed 


a lord of the earth and the sea and the fountains of water cared 
for his children and would have them honest and fearless. 
And now came a scattering of rubies and topazes over the 


- slow waves, as the sun reached the edge of the horizon, and 


shone with a glory of blinding red along the heaving level of 
green, dashed with the foam of their flight. Could such a des- 
cent as this be intended for a type of death ? Clementina asked. 
Was it not rather as if, from a corner of the tomb behind, she 
saw the back parts of a resurrection and ascension : warmth, out- 
shining, splendour ; departure from the door of the tomb; ex- 
nltant memory ; tarnishing gold, red fading to russet; fainting 
of spirit, loneliness ; deepening blue and green ; pallor, grayness, 
coldness ; out-creeping stars; further-reaching memory; the 
dawn of infinite hope and foresight ; the assurance that under 
passion itself lay a better and holier mystery ? Here was God’s 
naughty child, the world, laid asleep and dreaming—if not 
merrily, yet contentedly ; 3 and there was the sky with all the da: 
gathered and hidden up in its blue, ready to break forth again in 
laughter on the morrow, bending over its skyey cradle like a 
mother ! and there was the aurora, the secret of life, creeping 
away round to the north to be ready! ‘Then first, when the 
slow twilight had fairly settled into night, did Clementina begin 
to know the deepest marvel of this facet of the rose-diamond 


life! God’s night and sky and sea were her’s now, as they had 


- 


340 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


been Maicolm’s from childhood! And when the nets had been 
paid out, and sank straight into the deep, stretched betwixt leads 
below and floats and buoys above, extending a screen of meshes 
against the rush of the watery herd ; when the sails were down, 
and the whole vault of stars laid bare to her eyes as she lay; 
when the boat was still, fast to the nets, anchored as it were 
by hanging acres of curtain, and all was silent as a church, — 
waiting, and she might dream or sleep or pray as she would, 
with nothing about her but peace and love and the deep sea, 
and over her but still peace and love and the deeper sky, 
then the soul of Clementina rose and worshipped the soul of the 
universe ; her spirit clave to the Life of her life, the Thought of — 
her thought, the Heart of her heart ; her will bowed itself to the 
creator of will, worshipping the supreme, original, only Freedom 
-——the Father of her love, the Father of Jesus Christ, the God of 
‘he hearts of the universe, the Thinker of all thoughts, the Be- 
ginner of all beginnings, the All-in-all. It was her first experience 
of speechless adoration. 7 : 

_Most of the men were asleep in the bows of the boat ; all were 
lying down but one. That one was Malcolm. He had come 
aft, and seated himself under the platform leaning against it. 

The boat rose and sank a little, just enough to rock the sleep- — 
ing children a little deeper into their sleep ; Malcolm thought all — 
slept. He did not see how Clementina’s eyes shone back to the — 
heavens—no star in them to be named beside those eyes. She 
knew that Malcolm was near her, but she would not speak ; she 
would not break the peace of the presence. A minute or two 
passed. ‘Then softly woke a murmur of sound, that strengthened ~ 
and grew, and swelled at last into a song. She feared to stir lest 
she should interrupt its flow. And thus it flowed: 


The stars are steady abune ; 

I’ the water they flichter an’ flee 3 
But steady aye luikin’ doon, 

They ken themsel’s i’ the sea. 


A’ licht, an’ clear, an’ free, 
God, thou shinest abune ; 

Yet luik, an’ see thysel’ in me, 
God, whan thou luikest doon. 


A silence followed, but a silence that seemed about to be 
broken. And again Malcolm sang : 


There was an auld fisher—he sat by the wa’, 
An’ luikit oot ower the sea ; 

The bairnies war playin’, he smilit on them a’, % 
But the tear stude in his e’e. ; 


SEA 341 


An it’s oh to win awa, awa ?t 
An it’s oh to win awn 
Whaur the bairns come hame, an’ the wives they bide, 
An’ God is the Father ao a! 


Jocky an’ Jeamy an’ Tammy oot there, 
A’ ? the boatie gaed doon ; 
An’ I’m ower auld to fish ony mair, 
An’ I hinna the chance to droon. 
An’ it’s oh to win awa’, awa’! &¢. 


An’ Jeanie she grat to ease her hext, 
An’ she easit hersel’ aw2’ ; 
But I’m ower auld for the tears to stert, 
An’ sae the sighs maun blaw. 
An it’s oh to win awa’, awa’! &¢. 


Lord, steer me hame whaur my Lord has steerit, 
For I’m tired o’ life’s rockin’ sea ; 
An’ dinna be lang, for I’m nearhan’ fearit 
?At I’m ’maist ower auld to dee. 
An it’s oh to win awa, awa! &¢. 


Again the stars and the sky were all, and there was no sound 
but the slight murmurous lipping of the low swell against the 
edges of the planks. Then Clementina, said : 

“Did you make that song, Malcolm?” 

“¢Whilk o’ them, my leddy ?—But it’s a’? ane—they’re baith 
mine, sic as they are.” 

“Thank you,” she returned. 

What for, my leddy ?” 

“For speaking Scotch to me.” 

“T beg your pardon, my lady. I forgot your ladyship was 
English.” 

“ Please forget it,” she said. ‘But I thank you for your songs 
too. It was the second I wanted to know about ; the first I was 
certain was your own. I did not know you could enter like that 
into the feelings of an old man.” 

“Why not, my lady? I never can see living thing without 
asking it how it feels. Often and often, out here at such a time 
as this, have I tried to fancy myself a herring caught by the gills 
in the net down below, instead of the fisherman in the boat above 
going to haul him out.” 

“ And did you succeed ?” 

Well, I fancy I came to understand as much of him as he 
does himself, It’s a merry enough life down there. The flukes 
—plaice, you call them, my lady,—bother me, I confess. I never 
contemplate one without feeling as if I had been sat upon when 
I was a baby. But for an old man !—Why, that’s what I shall 
be myself one day most likely, and it would be a shame not to 


Beals Anbeiah au epee ae Mii al ENE aka Cle aN diary ce Senet Ame RS oy a oe aetna s Mises 
4 Md * : eee SEN ee On aye " *% = 
iy hi NEA a 


Us ite aly Sits! Od? 


342 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


know pretty nearly how “e felt—near enough at least to make a 
song about him.” 

* And shan’t you mind being an old man, then, Malcolm?” | 

“‘ Not in the least, my lady. I shall mind nothing so long as _ 
I can trust in the maker of me. If my faith should give way— 
why then there would be nothing worth minding either! I don’t 
know but I should kill myself.” 3 

“ Malcolm! ” ‘re 

“Which is worse, my lady—to distrust God, or to think life 
worth having without him P” , 

“‘ But one may hope in the midst of doubt—at least that is 
what Mr Graham—and you—have taught me to do.” 

“ Yes, surely, my lady. I won’t let anyone beat me at that, ifI 
can help it. And I think that so long as [kept my reason, [should 
be able to cry out, as that grandest and most human of all the — 
prophets did—‘Though he slay me yet will I trust in him.’ — 
But would you not like to sleep, my lady ?” 

‘““ No, Malcolm. I would much rather hear you talk.—Could you ~ 
not tell me a story now? Lady Lossie mentioned one you once 
told her about an old castle somewhere not far from here-——” 

“ih, my leddy!” broke in Annie Mair, who had waked up ~ 
while they were speaking, “I wuss ye wad gar him tell ye that — 
story, for my man he’s h’ard ’im tell’t, an’ he says it’s unco grue- 
some: I wad fain hear ’t.—Wauk up, Lizzy,” she went on, in 
her eagerness waiting for no. answer ; “ Ma’colm’s gauin’ to tell- 

’s the tale o’ the auld castel o’ Colonsay.—It’s oot by yon’er, my ~ 
leddy—no that far frae the Deid Heid.—Wauk up, Lizzy.” 

“Y’m no sleepin’, Annie,’ said Lizzy, “—though like — 
Ma’colm’s auld man,” she added with a sigh, ‘I wad whiles fain ~ 
be.” 4 ee 
Now there were reasons why Malcolm should not be un- 
willing to tell the strange wild story requested of him, and he com- 
menced it at once, but modified the Scotch of it considerably for 
the sake of the unaccustomed ears. When it was ended Clemen- 
tina said nothing ; Annie Mair said “ Hech, sirs!” and Lizzy 
with a great sigh, remarked, , 

“The deil maun be in ‘a’thing whaur God hasna a han’, ’m 
thinkin’.” 

“Ye may tak yer aith upo’ that,” rejoined Malcolm. 

It was a custom in Peter’s boat never to draw the nets without 
a prayer, uttered now by one and now by another of the crew. 
Upon this occasion, whether it was in deference to Malcolm, — 
who, as he well understood, did not like long prayers, or that the 
presence of Clementina exercised some restraint upon his spirit, 


é 


oe 
Piet 


—_— 


8 eee ee oe 
- * - noo , 
- ! ae r nee f 
> * & te wi F 
. ‘ 
‘ 


SEA. | | 343 


out of the bows of the boat came now the solemn voice of 
its master, bearing only this one sentence: 

“Oh Thoo, wha didst tell thy dissiples to cast the net upo’ the 
side whaur swam the fish, gien it be thy wull ’at we catch the 
nicht, lat ’s catch ; gien it binna thy wull, lat ’s no catch.—Haul 
awa’, my laads.” 

Up sprang the-men, and went each to his place, and straight a 
torrent of gleaming fish was pouring in over the gunwale of the 
boat. Such a take it was ere the last of the nets was drawn, as 
the oldest of them had seldom seen. Thousands of fish there 
were that had never got into the meshes at all. 

“IT cannot understand it,” said Clementina. “ There are multi- 
tudes more fish than there are meshes in the nets to catch them: 
if they are not caught, why do they not swim away?” 

“Because they are drowned, my lady,” answered Malcolm. 

“What do you mean by that? How can you drown a fish?” 

“You may call it szzffocated if you like, my lady; it is all the 


same. You have read of panic-stricken people, when a church 


or a theatre is on fire, rushing to the door all in a heap, and 
crowding each other to death? It is something like that with the 
fish. ‘They are swimming along in a great shoal, yards thick ; 
and when the first can get no farther, that does not at once stop 
the rest, any more than it would in a crowd of people ; those that — 


are behind come pressing up into every corner, where there is 


room, till they are one dense mass. ‘Then they push and push 
to get forward, and can’t get through, and the rest come still . 
crowding on behind and above and below, till a multitude of them 
are jammed so tight against each othef that they can’t open their 
gills; and even if they could, there would not be air enough for 
them. You’ve seen the goldfish in the swan-basin, my lady, how 
they open and shut their gills constantly: that’s their way of 
getting air out of the water by some wonderful contrivance nobody 
understands, for they need breath just as much as we do: and to 
close their gills is to them the same as closing a man’s mouth and 
nose, ‘That’s how the most of those herrings are taken.” 

All were now ready to seek the harbour. A light westerly 
wind was still blowing, with the aid of which, heavy-laden, they 
crept slowly to the land. As she lay snug and warm, with the 
cool breath of the sea on her face, a half sleep came over 
Clementina, and she half dreamed that she was voyaging in a 
ship of the air, through infinite regions of space, with a destina. 
tion too glorious to be known. ‘The herring-boat was a living 
splendour of strength and speed, its sails were as the wings of a 
will, in place of the instruments of a force, and softly as mightily 


344 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


it bore them through the charmed realms of dreamland towards 
the ideal of the soul. And yet the herring-boat but crawled over 
the still waters with its load of fish, as the harvest waggon creeps 
over the field with its piled up sheaves; and she who imagined 


its wondrous speed was the only one who did not desire it should | 


move faster. No word passed between herand Malcolm all their 
homeward way. Each was brooding over the night and its joy 
that enclosed them together, and hoping for that which was yet 
to be shaken from the lap of the coming time. 

Also Clementina had in her mind a scheme for attempting what 
Malcolm had requested of her; the next day must see it carried 
into effect ; and ever and anon, like a cold blast of doubt invad- 
ing the bliss of confidence, into the heart of that sea-borne peace 
darted the thought, that, if she failed, she must leave at once for 
England, for she would not again meet Liftore. 


CHAPTER LXVII. 
SHORE. 


At last they glided once more through the stony jaws of the 
harbour, as if returning again to the earth from a sojourn in the 
land of the disembodied. When Clementina’s foot touched the 
shore she felt like one waked out of a dream, from whom yet the 
dream has not departed—but keeps floating about him, waved in 
thinner and yet thinner streams from the wings of the vanishing 
sleep. It seemed almost as if her spirit, instead of having come 
back to the world of its former abode, had been borne across 
the parting waters and landed on the shore of the immortals. 
There was the ghost-like harbour of the spirit land, the water 
gleaming betwixt its dark walls, one solitary boat motionless upon 
it, the men moving about like shadows in the star twilight! 
Here stood three women and a man on the shore, and save the 
stars no light shone, and from the land came no sound of life. 
Was it the dead of the night, or a day that had no sun? It was 
not dark, but the light was rayless. Or, rather, it was as if she 
had gained the power of seeing in the dark. Suppressed sleep 
wove the stuff of a dream around her, and the stir at her heart 
Kept it alive with dream-forms. Even the voice of Peter’s Annie, 
saying, “I s’ bide for my man. Gude nicht, my leddy,” did not 


‘-..7 tt SM eel gs Oe, Se uk D. N vi We RA Ne tA ey eo a DER eee Te See ee = 25 
yk Si, eal Bate) Re pea: Py tare a ay } net) Ca ee ee ~ es eS. Wi ee 
Ps eh Sige oe Danae eae ey te aM PEA tegen ah ce agate CAL es 
ai a a : . s he pee ‘ 
SOY ae ae ts ‘ 5 ‘ 
ye : SHORE. 
| . 345 


break the charm. Her heart shaped that also into the dream. 
Turning away with Malcolm and Lizzy, she passed along the 


front of the Seaton. How still, how dead, how empty like 
cenotaphs, all the cottages looked! How the sea which lay like 
a watcher at their doors, murmured in its sleep! Arrived at the 
entrance to her own close, Lizzy next bade them good night, and 
Clementina and Malcolm were left. 

And now drew near the full power, the culmination of the 
mounting enchantment of the night for Malcolm. When once 


the Scaurnose people should have passed them, they would be 


alone—alone as in the spaces between the stars. There would 
not be a living soul on the shore for hours. From the harbour 
the nearest way to the House was by the sea-gate, but where was 
the haste—with the lovely night around them, private as a dream 


shared only by two? Besides, to get in by that, they would have 


had to rouse the cantankerous Bykes, and what a jar would not 
that bring into the music of the silence! Instead, therefore, of 
turning up by the side of the stream where it crossed the shore, 
he took Clementina once again in his arms unforbidden, and 
carried her over. ‘Then the long sands lay open to their feet. 
Presently they heard the Scaurnose party behind them, coming 
audibly, merrily on. As by a common resolve they turned to the 
left, and crossing the end of the Boar’s Tail, resumed their former 
direction, with the dune now between them and the sea. The 
voices passed on the other side, and they heard them slowly merge 
into the inaudible. At length, after an interval of silence, on the 
westerly air came one quiver of laughter—by which Malcolm 
knew-his, friends were winding up the red path to the top of the 


cliff. And now the shore was bare of presence, bare of sound 


save the soft fitful rush of the rising tide. But behind the long 
sandhill, for all they could see of the sea, they might have been 
in the heart of a continent. 

“Who would imagine the ocean so near us, my lady!” said 
Malcolm, after they had walked for some time without word — 
spoken. 

“Who can tell what may be near us?” she returned. 

“True, my lady. Our future is near us, holding thousands of 
things unknown. Hosts of thinking beings with endless myriads ~ 
of thoughts may be around us. hat a joy tc know that, of all 
things and all thoughts, God is nearest to us—so near that we 
cannot see him, but, far beyond seeing him, can know of him 
infinitely !” 

As he spoke they came opposite the tunnel, but he turned from 
it and they ascended the dune. As their heads rose over the top, 


SPR ed OF Te . < a Stee NS ve = > SY ee 
“ ; * - » ” ¥ N a ee wy , 
5 ; ae oe he Se eS 


“te 


oa THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


and the sky-night above and the sea-night beneath rolled them: 


selves out and rushed silently together, Malcolm said, as if think- 
ing aloud: 
“Thus shall we meet death and the unknown, and the new 


that breaks from the bosom of the invisible will be better than | 


the old upon which the gates close behind us. The Son of man 
is content with my future, and I am content.” 


There was a peace in the words that troubled Clementina: he 


wanted no more than he had—this cold, imperturbable, devout 
fisherman! She did not see that it was the confidence of having 


all things that held his peace rooted. From the platform of the — 


swivel, they looked abroad over the sea. Far north in the east 
lurked a suspicion of dawn, which seemed, while they gazed upon 


it, to “languish into life,” and the sea was a shade less dark than 


when they turned from it to go behind the dune. They 
descended a few paces, and halted again. 

“ Did your ladyship ever see the sun rise?” asked Malcolm. 

“Never in open country,” she answered. 

“Then stay and see it now, my lady. He'll rise just over 
yonder, a little nearer this way than that light from under his 


eyelids. A more glorious chance you could not have. And 


when he rises, just observe, one minute after he is up, how likea | 


dream all you have been in to-night will look. It is to me strange 
even to awfulness how many different phases of things, and feel- 
ings about them, and moods of life and consciousness, God can 
tie up in the bundle of one world with one human soul to 
carry it.” 

Clementina slowly sank on the sand of the slope, and like 
lovely sphinx of northern desert, gazed in immovable silence out 


on the yet more northern sea. Malcolm took his place a little _ 


below, leaning on his elbow, for the slope was steep, and looking 
up at her. ‘Thus they waited the sunrise. 


Was it minutes or only moments passed in that silence—whose _ 


speech was the soft ripple of the sea on the sand? Neither could 
have answered the question. At length said Malcolm, 

“T think of changing my service, my lady.” 

“Indeed, Malcolm!” 


“Yes, my lady. My—amistress does not like to turn me away, 


but she is tired of me, and does not want me any longer.” 


¢ 


“ But you would never think of finally forsaking a fisherman’s — 


life for that of a servant, surely, Malcolm?” f 
“What would become of Kelpie, my lady?” rejoined Malcolm, 
smiling to himself. . 
“Ah!” said Clementina, bewildered ; “I had not thought of 


SHORE. | 347 


her—But yoa cannot take her with you,” she added, coming a 
M4 y: § 


little to her senses. 


“There is nobody about the place who could, or rather, who 
would do anything with her. They would sell her. I have 
enough to buy her, and perhaps somebody might not object to 
the encumbrance, but hire me and her together.— Your groom 
wants a coachman’s place, my lady.” 

“© Malcolm! do you mean you would be my groom?” cried 


- Clementina, pressing her palms together. 


“If you would have me, my lady; but I have heard you say 
you would have none but a married man ?” 

“ But—Malcolm—don’t you know anybody that would—?— 
Could you not find some one—some lady—that—?—I mean, why 
shouldn’t you be a married man?” 

“For a very good and to me rather sad reason, my lady; the 
only woman I could marry, or should ever be able to marry,— 
would not have me. She is very kind and very noble, but—it is 
preposterous—the thing is too preposterous. I dare not have 


- the presumption to ask her.” 


Malcolm’s voice trembled as he spoke, and a few moments’ 
pause followed, during which he could not lift his eyes. The 
whole heaven seemed pressing down their lids. The breath’ 
which he modelled into words seemed to come in little billows. 

But his words had raised a storm in Clementina’s bosom. A 
ery broke from her, as if driven forth by pain. She called up 
all the energy of her nature, and stilled herself to speak. The 
voice that came was little more than a sob-scattered whisper, but 
to her it seemed as if all the world must hear. 

“Oh Malcolm !” she panted, “I zwz2// try to be good and wise. 
Don’t marry anybody else—anybody, I mean; but come with 
Kelpie and be my groom, and wait and see if I don’t grow better.” 

Malcolm leaped to his feet and threw himself at hers. He 
had heard but in part, and he must know all. 

“My lady,” he said, with intense quiet, ‘‘ Kelpie and I will be 
your slaves. Take me for fisherman—groom—what you will. 
{ offer the whole sum of service that is in me.” He kissed her 
feet. ‘My lady, I would put your feet on my head,” he went 
on, “only then what should I do when I see my Lord, and 
cast myself before /z7m ?” 

But Clementina, again her own to give, rose quickly, and said 
with all the dignity born of her inward grandeur, 

“Rise, Malcolm ; you misunderstand me.” 

Malcolm rose abashed, but stood erect before her, save that 
his head was bowed, for his heart was sunk in dismay. Then 


slowly, penny Clementina knelt before him. He was bew ildered, 
and thought she was going to pray. In sweet, clear, unsha - 
tones, for she feared nothing now, she said, ie 
“Malcolm, I am not worthy of you. But take mecsake a 


i ‘ 
on: 


ae very soul if you will, for it is yours.’ ee 
i ae Now Malcolm saw that he had no right to raise a kneeling 
RAS lady ; all he could do was to kneel beside her. When people 
ie kneel, they lift up their hearts; and the creating heart of hea $i 
joy was forgotten of neither. And well for them, for the love — 
og where God is not, be the lady lovely as Cordelia, the man gent =} : 
ve as Philip Sidney, ‘will fare as the overkept manna. aes 
ete When the huge tidal wave from the ocean of infinite deli rht i 


oe 


had broken at last upon the shore of the finite, and withdraw nt 
again into the deeps, leaving every cistern brimming, evel a 
fountain overflowing, the two entranced souls opened thei 7 
bodily eyes, looked at each other, rose, and stood hand in hand a 
speechless. 
+ “ Ah, my lady!” said Malcolm at length, “ what is to becon i. 
bees, .2°-Of this delicate smoothness in my great rough hand? Will it not : 
Renee. .>- be hurt?” 
eee “You don’t know how strong it is, Malcolm. There!” _ ws 3 
“T can scarcely feel it with my ‘hand, my lady; it all ee 
through to my heart. It shall lie in mine as the diamond 1 int he 
rock.” ? 
‘No, no, Malcolm! Now that I am going to be a fishertnaala 
wife, it must be a strong hand—it must work. What homage 
~ shall you require of me, Malcolm? What will you have me do” 
to rise a little nearer your level? Shall I give away lands a and 
money? And shall I live with you in the Seaton? or will y you 
come and fish at Wastbeach P” ie 
‘Forgive me, my lady ; I can’t think about things now—eyven 
with you in them. There is neither past nor future to mend Ww 
—only this one eternal morning. Sit here, and look up, Lady 
Clementina :—see all those worlds :—something in me const y 


oa ee 
tity; ey 


ee ee 
Site a 


~~. 


Ved 


tad says that I shall know every one of them one day; that they < re 
i all but rooms in the house of my spirit, that is, the house of ou ir 
bia. Father. Let us not now, when your love makes me twice 


eternal, talk of time and places. Come, let us faricy ourselves 
ae two blessed spirits, lying full in the sight and light of our God, — 
as indeed what else are we ?—warming our hearts in his presen ce 
and peace; and that we have but to rise and spread our win, a8 
to soar aloft and find—what shall it be, my lady? Worlds upon 
worlds? No, no. What are worlds upon worlds in infini ite 
show until we have seen the face of the Son of Man?” _ i 


. Ai. nl ri 
x Rage ty wate yy, 
as. , ¢ wt Reuse . id 4 


wn . as ne. ht ote 
a ee ee te eh a eee eee Oe mee ae 1st Pubes eet jh eset as 


SHORE, 349 


A silence fell. But he resumed. 

“Tet us imagine our earthly life behind us, our hearts clean, 
tove all in all.—But that sends me back to the now. My lady, 
I know I shall never love you aright until you have helped me 
perfect. When the face of the least lovely of my neighbours 
needs but appear to rouse in my heart a divine tenderness, then 
it must be that I shall love you better than now. Now, alas! 
I am so pervious to wrong! so fertile of resentments and in- 
dignations! You must cure me, my divine Clemency.—Am I a 
poor lover to talk, this first glorious hour, of anything but my 
lady love? Ah! but let it excuse me that this love is no new 
thing tome. Itis avery oldlove. I have loved you a thousand 
years. I love every atom of your being, every thought that can 
harbour in your soul, and I am jealous of hurting your blossoms 
with the over-jubilant winds of that very love. 1 would there- 
fore behold you folded in the atmosphere of the Love eternal. 
My lady, if I were to talk of your beauty, I should but offend 
you, for you would think I raved, and spoke not the words of truth 
and soberness. But how often have I not cried to the God who 
breathed the beauty into you that it might shine out of you, to 
save my soul from the tempest of its own delight therein. And 
now I am like one that has caught an angel in his net, and fears 
to come too nigh, lest fire should flash from the eyes of the 
startled splendour, and consume the net and him who holds it. 
But I will not rave, because I would possess in grand peace 
that which I lay at your feet. I am yours, and would be worthy 
of your moonlight calm.” 

“Alas! I am beside you but a block of marble!” said 
Clementina. ‘“ You are so eloquent, my 4 

“ New groom,” suggested Malcolm gently. 

Clementina smiled. 

“But my heart is so full,” she went on, “that I cannot think 
the filmiest thought. I hardly know that I feel. I only know 
that I want to weep.” 

“Weep then, my word ineffable!” cried Malcolm, and laid 
himself again at her feet, kissed them, and was silent. 

He was but a fisher poet ; no courtier, no darling of society, 
no dealer in the fine speeches, no clerk of compliments. All 
the words he had were the living blossoms of thought rooted in 
feeling. His pure clear heart was as a crystal cup, through 
which shone the red wine of his love. To himself, Malcolm 
stammered as a dumb man, the string of whose tongue has but 
just been loosed ; to Clementina his speech was as the song of 
the Lady to Comus, “divine enchanting ravishment.” ‘The 


350 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


God of truth is surely present at every such marriage feast of 
two radiant spirits. Their joy was that neither had fooled the 
hope of the other. 

And so the herring boat had indeed carried Clementina over 
into paradise, and this night of the world was to her a twilight of 
heaven. God alone can tell what delights it is possible for him 
to give to the pure in heart who shall one day behold him. 
Like two that had died and found each other, they talked until 
speech rose into silence, they smiled until the dews which the 
smiles had sublimed claimed their turn and descended in tears. 

All at once they became aware that an eye-was upon them. It 
was thessun. He was ten degrees up the slope of the sky, and 
they had never seen him rise. 

With the sun came a troublous thought, for with the sun came 
“a world of men.” Neither they nor the simple fisher folk, 
their friends, had thought of the thing, but now at length it 
occurred to Clementina that she would rather not walk up to the 
door of Lossie House with Malcolm at this hour of the morning. 
Yet neither could she well appear alone. Ere she had spoken 
Malcolm rose. 

“Vou won't mind being left, my lady,” he said, “for a 
quarter of an hour or so—will you? I want to bring Lizzy to 
walk home with you.” 

He went, and Clementina sat alone on the dune in a reposeful 
rapture, to which the sleeplessness of the night gave a certain 
additional intensity and richness and strangeness. She watched 
the great strides of her fisherman as he walked along the sands, 
and she seemed not to be left behind, but to go with him every 
step. The tide was again falling, and the sea shone and 
sparkled and danced with life, and the wet sand gleamed, and a 
soft air blew on her cheek, and the lordly sun was mounting 
higher and higher, and a lark over her head was sacrificing all 
nature in his song; and it seemed as if Malcolm were still 
speaking strange, half intelligible, altogether lovely things in her 
ears. She felt a little weary, and laid her head down upon her 
arm to listen more at her ease. 

Now the lark had seen all and heard all, and was telling it 
again to the universe, only in dark sayings which none but 
themselves could understand; therefore it is no wonder that, as 
she listened, his song melted into a dream, and she slept. And 
the dream was lovely as dream needs be, but not lovelier than 
the wakeful night. She opened her eyes, calm as any cradled 
child, and there stood her fisherman ! 

“T have been explaining to Lizzy, my lady,” he said, “ that 


THE CREW OF THE BONNIE ANNIE. 351 


your ladyship would rather have her company up to the door 
than mine. Lizzy is to be trusted, my lady.” 

‘Deed, my leddy,” said Lizzy, ** Ma’colm’s been ower guid 
to me, no to gar me du onything he wad ha’e o’ me. I can 
haud my tongue whan I like, my leddy. An’ dinna doobt my 
thouchts, my leddy, for I ken Ma’colm as weel’s ye du yersel’, 
my leddy.” 

While she was speaking, Clementina rose, and they went straight 
to the door in the bank. Through the tunnel and the young wood 
and the dew and the morning odours, along the lovely paths the 
three walked to the house together. And oh, how the larks of the 
earth and the larks of the soul sang for two of them! And how 
the burn rang with music, and the air throbbed with sweetest 
life ! while the breath of God made a little sound as of a going 
now and then in the tops of the fir-trees, and the sun shone his 
brightest and best, and all nature knew that the heart of God is 
the home of his creatures. 

When they drew near the house Malcolm left them. After 
they had rung a good many times, the door was opened by the 
housekeeper, looking very proper and just a little scandalized. — 

“ Please, Mrs Courthope,” said Lady Clementina, “will you 
give orders that when this young woman comes to see me to-day 
she shall be shown up to my room?” , 

Then she turned to Lizzy and thanked her for her kindness, 
and they parted—Lizzy to her baby, and Clementina to yet a 
dream or two. Long before her dreams were sleeping ones, 
however, Malcolm was out in the bay in the Psyche’s dinghy, 


catching mackerel: some should be for his grandfather, some 


for Miss Horn, some for Mrs Courthope, and some for Mrs 
Crathie. 


CHAPTER LXVIII. 
THE CREW OF THE BONNIE ANNIE. 


PAviINc caught as many fish ag_he wanted, Malcolm rowed to the 
other side of the Scaurnose.° ‘There he landed and left the 
dinghy in the shelter of the rocks, the fish covered with long 
broad-leaved ¢avgdes, climbed the steep cliff, and sought Blue 
Peter. The brown village was quiet “as a churchyard, although 
the sun was now growing hot. Of the men some were not yet 


352 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE, 


returned from the night’s fishing, and some were asleep in their 
beds after it. Not achimney smoked. But Malcolm seemed to 
have in his own single being life and joy enough for a world; 
such an intense consciousness of bliss burned within him, that, 
in the sightless, motionless village, he seemed to himself to 
stand like an altar blazing in the midst of desert Carnac.. But 
he was not the only one awake: on the threshold of Peter’s 
cottage sat his little Phemy, trying to polish a bit of serpentine 
marble upon the doorstep, with the help of water, which stood 
by her side in a broken tea-cup. 

She lifted her sweet gray eyes, and smiled him a welcome. 

‘Are ye up a’ready, Phemy ?” he said. 

*T ha’ena been doon yet,” she answered. “My mither was 
_ oot last nicht wi’ the boat, an’ Auntie Jinse was wi’ the bairn, an’ 
sae I cud du as I hikit.” 

“ An’ what did ye like, Phemy ?” 

_“ A’body kens what I like,” answered the child: ‘‘I was oot 
an’ aboot a’ nicht. An’ eh, Ma’colm! I hed a veesion.” 

“What was that, Phemy ?” 

“T was upo’ the tap o’ the Nose, jist as the sun rase, luikin’ 
aboot me, an’ awa’ upo’ the Boar’s Tail I saw twa angels sayin’ 
their prayers. Nae doobt they war prayin’ for the haill warl’, ” 
the quaiet o’ the mornin’ afore the din begud. Maybe ane o’ 
them was that auld priest wi’ the lang name 1’ the buik o’ Genesis, 
‘at hed naither father nor mither—puir man !—him “at gaed 
aboot blissin’ fowk.” 

Malcolm thought he might take his own time to set the child 
right, and asked her to go and tell her father that he wanted to 
see him. In a few minutes Blue Peter appeared, rubbing his 
eyes—one of the dead called too early from the tomb of sleep. 

“Freen’ Peter,” said Malcolm, “I’m gaein’ to speak oot the day.” 

Peter woke up. 

“Weel,” he said, “I am glaid o’ that, Ma’colm,—I beg yer 
pardon, my lord, I sud say.—Annie !”’ 

“‘Haud a quaiet sough, man. I wadna hae ’t come oot at 
Scaurnose first. I’m come noo ’cause I want ye to stan’ by me.” 

**T wull that, my lord.” 

“ Weel, gang an’ gether yer boat’s crew, an’ fess them doon to 
the cove, an’ [’ll tell them, an’ maybe they'll stan’ by me as weel.” 

“ There’s little fear o’ that, gien I ken my men,” answered 
Peter, and went off, rather less than half-clothed, the sun burning 
hot upon his back, through the sleeping village, to call them, 
while Malcolm went and waited beside the dinghy. 

At length six men in a body, and one lagging behind, appeared 


a4 ENE COs 

On. AE T, 

fe pew TAR 

: Mae 
Sere 


THE CREW OF THE BONNIE ANNIE. 353 


coming down the winding path—all but Peter no doubt wonder- 
ing why they were called so soon from their beds, on such a 
peaceful morning, after being out the night before. Malcolm 
went to meet them. 
fe reens,” he said, “I’m in want 0’ yer help.” 
*‘Onything ye like, Ma’colm, sae far ’s I’m concernt, ’cep’ it be 
to ride yer mere. That I wull no tak in han’,” said Jeames Gentle. 
“It’s no that,” returned Malcolm. “It’s naething freely sae 


hard’s that, I’m thinkin’. The hard ‘ll be to believe what I’m 


gaein’ to tell ye.” 

“Ye'll no be gaein’ to set up for a proaphet?” said Girnel, 
with something approaching a sneer. 

Girnel was the one who came down behind the rest. 

“Na, na; naething like it,” said Blue Peter. 

“But first ye’ll promise to haud yer tongues for half a day?” 
said Malcolm. 

“Ay, ay ; we'll no clype.”—“ We s’ haud wer tongues,” cried 
one and another and another, and all seemed to assent. 

“ Weel,” said Malcolm, “ My name ’s no Ma’colm MacPhail, - 
but—-—” 

“We a’ ken that,” said Girnel. 

“An’ what mair du ye ken?” asked Blue Peter, with some 
anger at his interruption. 

“ Ow, naething.” 

“ Weel, ye ken little,” said Peter, and the rest laughed. 

“Tm the Markis or Lossie, ” said Malcolm. 

Every man but Peter laughed again: all took it for a joke 
precursive of some serious announcement. That which it would 
have least surprised them to hear, would have been that he was 
a natural son of the late marquis. 

“My name ’s Ma’colm Colonsay,” resumed Malcolm, quietly ; 
‘an’ I’m the saxt Markis o’ Lossie.” 

A dead silence followed, and in doubt, astonishment, bewilder- 
ment, and vague awe, accompanied in the case of two or three 
by a strong inclination to laugh, with which they struggled, belief 
began. Always a curious observer of humanity, Malcolm calmly 
watched them. From discord of expression, most of their faces 
had grown idiotic. But after a few moments of stupefaction, first 
one and then another turned his eyes upon Blue Peter, and per- 
ceiving that the matter was to him not only serious but evi- 
dently no news, each began to come to his senses, the chaos 
within him slowly arranged itself, and his face gradually settled 
into an expression of sanity—the foolishness disappearing while 
the wonder and pleasure remained. 

7 


354 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


“ Ye mauna tak it ill, my lord,” said Peter, “gien the laads be — 
ta’en aback wi’ the news. It’s a some suddent shift o’ the win’, — 
ye see, my lord.” 

‘“¢T wuss yer lordship weel,” thereupon said one, and held out 
his hand. 

“Lang life to yer lordship,” said another. 

Each spoke a hearty word, and shook hands with him—all 
except Girnel, who held back, looking on, with his right hand in 
his trouser-pocket. 

He was one who always took the opposite side—a tolerably 
honest and trustworthy soul, with a good many knots and pieces 
of cross grain in the timber of him. His old Adam was the most 
essential and thorough of dissenters, always arguing and disput- 
ing, especially on theological questions. 

“‘Na,” said Girnel ; “ ye maun saitisfee me first wha ye are, 
an’ what ye want o’ me. I’m no to be drawn into onything ’at 
I dinna ken a’ aboot aforehan’. I s’ no tie mysel’ up wi’ ony 
promises. Them ’at gangs whaur they kenna, may lan’ at the 
widdie (ga//ows).” 7 

“Nae doobt,” said Malcolm, “yer ain jeedgement ’s mair to 
ye nor my word, Girnel ; but saw ye ever onything in me ‘at wad 
justifee ye in no lippenin’ to that sae far’s it gaed?” 


“Ow na! I’m no sayin’ that naither. But what ha’e ye to ~~ 


shaw anent the privin’ o’ ’t ?” 

“T have papers signed by my father, the late marquis, and | 
sealed and witnessed by well-known gentlemen of the neighbour- 
hood.” 

“ Whaur are they?” said Girnel, holding out his hand. 

“JT don’t carry such valuable things about me,” answered 
Malcolm. “But if you go with the rest, you shall see them 
afterwards.” | 

“Tl du naething i’ the dark,” persisted Girnel. ‘“ Whan I 
see the peppers, I’ll ken what to du.” 

With a nod of the head as self-important as decisive, he turned 
his back. 

“ At all events,” said Malcolm, ‘you will say nothing about 
it before you hear from one of us again?” 

“‘T mak nae promises,” answered Girnel, from behind his own 
back. : 

A howl arose from the rest. 
“Ye promised a’ready,” said Blue Peter. 
“Na, I didna that. I said never a word.” 


«What right then had you to remain and listen tomy dis- —_— 


closure P” said Malcolm. “If you be guilty of such a mean trick 


. THE CREW OF THE BONNIE ANNIE. 355 


as betray me and ruin my plans, no honest man in Portlossie ot 
Scaurnose but will scorn you.” 

“There! tak ye that !” said Peter. An’ Is’ promise ye, ye 9’ 
never lay leg ower the gunnel o’ my boat again. I s’ hae nane 
but Christi-an men 1’ my pey.” 

“ Ye hired me for the sizon, Blew Peter,” said Girnel, turning 
defiantly. 

“Oh! yes’ ha’e yer wauges. I’m no ane to creep oot 0’ a 
bargain, or say ’at I didna promise. Yes’ get yer reward, never 
fear. But into my boat yes’ no come. We'll ha’e nae Auchans 
VY oor camp. Eh, Girnel, man, but ye ha’e lost yersel’ the day! 
He'll never loup far ’at winna lippen. The auld worthies tuik 
their life 7 their han’, but ye tak yer fit (foot) 7 yours. I’m clean 
affrontit ’at ever I hed ye amo’ my men.” 

But with that there rushed over Peter the recollection of how 
he had himself mistrusted, not Malcolm’s word indeed, but his 
heart. He turned, and clasping his hands in sudden self- 
reproach, 

‘My lord, I saired ye ill mysel’ ance,” he cried; “for I mis- 
doobted ’at ye wasna the same to me efter ye cam to yer ain. I 
beg yer pardon, my lord, here 1’ the face o’ my freen’s. It was 
ill-temper an’ pride 7’ me, jist the same asi t’s noo in Girnel 
there ;.an’ ye maun forgi’e him, as ye forga’e me, my lord, as 
sune ’s ye can.” 

“Tl du that, my Peter, the verra moment he wants to be 
forgi’en,” said Malcolm. 

But Girnel turned with a grunt, and moved away towards the 
cliff. ; 

“This ‘ll never du,” said Peter. ‘‘A man ’at’s honest 7’ the 
main may play the verra dog afore he gets the deevil oot o’ ’im 
ance he ’s in like that. Gang efter ’im, laads, an’ kep (zzdercept) 
im an’ keep ‘im. We'll ha’e to cast a k-not or twa aboot ’im, an’ 
lay “im 7’ the boddom o’ the boat.” i 

The six had already started after him hke one man. But 
Malcolm cried, 

“Let him go: he has done me no wrong yet, and I dont 
believe will do me any. But for no risk must we prevent wrong 
with wrong.” 

So Girnel was allowed to depart—scarcely in peace, for he was 
already ashamed of himself. With the understanding that they 
were to be ready to his call, and that they should hear from him 
in the course of the day, Malcolm left them, and rowed back to 
the Psyche. ‘There he took his basket of fish on his arm, which 
he went 2nd distributed according to his purpose, ending with 


356 THE MAROUIS OF LOSSIE. 


Mrs Courthope at the House. Then he fed and dressed Kelpie, 


saddled her and galloped to Duff Harbour, where he found Mr 
Soutar at breakfast, and arranged with him to be at Lossie House 
at two o’clock. On his way back he called on Mr Morrison, and 
requested his presence at the same hour. Skirting the back of 
the House, and riding as straight as he could, he then made for 
- Scaurnose, and appointed his friends to be near the House at 
noon, so placed as not to attract observation and yet be within 
hearing of his whistle from door or window in the front. Return- 
ing to the House, he put up Kelpie, rubbed her down and fed 
her; then, as there was yet some time to spare, paid a visit to the 
factor. He found his lady, for all his present of fish in the earlier 
morning, anything but friendly. She did all she could to humble 
him ; insisted on paying him for the fish; and ordered him, be- 
cause they smelt of the stable, to take off his boots before he went 
upstairs—to his master’s room, as she phrased it. But Mr 
Crathie was cordial, and, to Malcolm’s great satisfaction, much 
recovered. He had better than pleasant talk with him. 


CHAPTER LXIX 
LIZZY’S BABY. 


WuIiLe they were out in the fishing-boat together, Clementina 
had, with less difficulty than she had anticipated, persuaded Lizzy 
to tell Lady Lossie her secret. It was in the hope of an interview 
with her false lover that the poor girl had consented so easily. 

A great longing had risen within her to have the father of her 
child acknowledge him—only to her, taking him once in his arms. 
That was all. She had no hope, thought indeed she had no 
desire for herself. But a kind word to him would be welcome as 
light. The love that covers sins had covered the multitude of 
his, and although hopelessness had put desire to sleep, she would 
gladly have given her life for a loving smile from him. But 
mingled with this longing to see him once with his child in his 
arms, a certain loyalty to the house of Lossie also influenced her 
to listen to the solicitation of Lady Clementina, and tell the 
marchioness the truth. She cherished no resentment against 
Liftore, but not therefore was she willing to allow a poor young 
thing like Lady Lossie, whom they all liked, to be sacrificed to 
such a man, who would doubtless at length behave badly enough 
to her also. 


LIZZV’S BABY. 307 


With trembling hands, and heart now beating wildly, now fail- 
ing for fear, she dressed her baby and herself as well as she could, 
and, about one o’clock, went to the House. 

Now nothing would have better pleased Lady Clementina than 
that Liftore and Lizzy should meet in Florimel’s presence, but 
she recoiled altogether from the small stratagems, not to mention 
the lies, necessary to the effecting of such a confrontation. So 
she had to content herself with bringing the two girls together, 
and, when Lizzy was a little rested, and had had a glass of wine, 
went to look for Florimel. 

She found her in a little room adjoining the library, which, on 
hier first coming to Lossie, she had chosen for her waking nest. 
Liftore had, if not quite the freedom of the spot, yet privileges 
there ; but at that moment Florimel was alone in it. Clementina 
informed her that a fisher-girl, with a sad story which she wanted 
to tell her, had come to the house; and Florimel, who was not 
only kind-hearted, but relished the position she imagined herself 
to occupy as lady of the place, at once assented to her proposal 
to bring the young woman to her there. , 

Now Florimel and the earl had had a small quarrel the night 
before, after Clementina left the dinner-table, and for the pleasure 
of keeping it up Florimel had not appeared at breakfast, and had 
declined to ride with his lordship, who had therefore been all the 
morning on the watch for an opportunity of reconciling himself. 
It so happened that from the end of one of the long narrow 
passages in which the house abounded, he caught a glimpse of 
Clementina’s dress vanishing through the library door, and took 
the lady for Florimel on her way to her boudoir. 

When Clementina entered with Lizzy carrying her child, 
Florimel instantly suspected the truth, both as to who she was 
and as to the design of her appearance. Her face flushed, for 
her heart filled with anger, chiefly indeed against Malcolm, but 


against the two women as well, who, she did not doubt, had lent 


themselves to his designs, whatever they might be. She rose, 
drew herself up, and stood prepared to act for both Liftore and 
herself. 

Scarcely however had the poor girl, trembling at the evident 
displeasure the sight of her caused in Florimel, opened her mouth 
to answer her haughty inquiry as to her business, when Lord 
Liftore, daring an entrance without warning, opened the door be- 
hind her, and, almost as he opened it, began his apology. At 
the sound of his voice Lizzy turned with a cry, and her small 
remaining modicum of self-possession vanished at sight of him 
round whose phantom in her bosom whirred the leaves of her 


__ withered life on eke cone blasts of her shae ange sorrow. S 
much from inability to stand as in supplication for the covete qd 


favour, she dropped on her knees before him, incapable of ee : 
fe ing-a word, but holding up her child imploringly. Taken alto- os. 
oe. gether by surprise, and not knowing what to say or do, the carl a 
stood and stared for a moment, then, moved by a dull spirit of — 


subterfuge, fell back on the pretence of knowing nothing about heroes * 
“Well, young woman,” he said, affecting cheerfulness, “what — 
do you want with me? I didn’t advertise for a baby. Prey ae 
child, though !” 
S. Lizzy turned white as death, and her whole body seemed to 
give a heave of agony. Clementina had just taken the child from 
_her arms when she sunk motionless at his feet. Florimel went 
to the bell. But Clementina prevented her from ringing. : 
_ “TJ will take her away,” she said. “ Do not expose her to your Ay 
servants. Lady Lossie, my Lord Liftore is the father of this 
child: and if you can marry him after the way you have seenhim 
use its mother, you are not too good for him, and I will trouble 
myself no more about you.” ‘ 
“ { know the author of this calumny !” cried Florimel, panting 
and flushed. ‘You have been listening to the inventions of an 
ungrateful dependent! You slander my guest.” ; 
“Ts it a calumny, my lord? Do I slander you?” said Lady Bee 
-Clementina, turning sharply upon the earl. a 
His lordship made her a cool obeisance. : ce = 
Clementina ran into the library, laid the child in a big chair, and 
returned for the mother. She was already coming a little to hen Bx. 
self, and feeling about blindly for her baby, while Florimel and Dy 
Liftore were looking out of the window, with their backs towards — a 
her. Clementina raised and led her from the room. But in the a 
doorway she turned and said— ed 
“Good-bye, Lady Lossie. I thank you for your hospitality, a 
____ but I can of course be your guest no longer.” ee. 
y, “Of course not. There is no occasion for prolonged leave. 
taking,” returned Florimel, with the air of a woman of forty. 
“Florimel, you will curse the day you marry that man !” cried 
_ Clementina, ‘and closed the door. - 
~ She hurried Lizzy to the library, put the baby in her arms, anda 
__ clasped them both in her own. A gush of tears lightened the 
oppressed heart of the mother. ee 
e “Lat me oot o’ the hoose, for God’s sake!” she cried; ane 
_ Clementina, almost as anxious to leave it as she, helped her — 
_down to the hall. When she saw the open door, she rushed out 
— of it as if escaping from the pit. ay 


ie Te EY-"s bs = ~~ a ~ Wig SD ee Ne pA 
we ot v4 - r OS 
ake 


LIZZV’S BABY, 350 


Now Malcolm, as he came from the factor’s, had seen her go 
in with her baby in her arms, and suspected the hand of 
Clementina. Wondering and anxious, but not very hopeful as to 
what might come of it, he waited close by; and when now he 
saw Lizzy dart from the house in wild perturbation, he ran from 
the cover of the surrounding trees into the open drive to meet 
her. 3 
“Ma’colm !” groaned the poor girl, holding out her baby, “‘he 
Winna own till’t. He winna alloo ’at he kens oucht aboot me or 
the bairn aither !” 

Malcolm had taken the child from her, and was clasping him 
to his bosom. 

““He’s the warst rascal, Lizzy,” he said, “’at ever God made an’ 
the deevil blaudit.” 

“Na, na,” cried Lizzy; “the likes o’ him whiles kills the 
wuman, but he wadna du that. Na, he’s nae the warst; there’s 
a heap waur nor him.” 

“Did ye see my mistress?” asked Malcolm. 

“Ow ay; but she luikit sae angry at me, I cudna speyk. Him 
an’ her ’s ower thrang for her to believe onything again’ him. 
An’ what ever the bairn ’s to du wantin’ a father !” 

“Lizzy,” said Malcolm, clasping the child again to his 
bosom. “I’s’ be a father to yer bairn—that is, as weel’s ane 
’at’s no yer man can be.” 

And he kissed the child tenderly. 

The same moment an undefined impulse—the drawing of eyes 
probably—made him lift his towards the house: half leaning 
from the open window of the boudoir above him, stood Florimel 
and Liftore; and just as he looked up, Liftore was turning to 
Florimel with a smile that seemed to say—‘“ There! I told you 
so! He is the father himself.” 

Malcolm replaced the infant in his mother’s arm, and strode 
towards the house. Imagining he went to avenge her wrongs, 
Lizzy ran after him. 

“Ma’colm! Ma’colm!” she cried; “—for my sake !—-He’s 
the father o’ my bairn !” 

Malcolm turned. 

“Lizzy,” he said solemnly, “I winna lay han’ upon ’im.” 

Lizzy pressed her child closer with a throb of relief. 

“Come in yersel’ an’ see,” he added. 

“JY daurna! J daurna!” she said. But she lingered about 
the door. | 


CHARTER CAS 


THE DISCLOSURE. 


WHEN the earl saw Malcolm coming, siecuee he was: no 
coward, and had reason to trust his skill, yet knowing himself 
both in the wrong and vastly inferior in strength to his cena 
it may be pardoned him that for the next few seconds his heart aa 
doubled its beats. But of all things he must OE show feat 2 
before Florimel ! Ray 
“What can the fellow be after now?” he said. ok must 0 Ee 
down to him.” 
LS ‘““No, no; don’t go near him—he may be violent,” objected = 
Pet Florimel, and laid her hand on his arm with a beseeching look = 
ee... Inher face. “Heisa dangerous man.’ , 
__-._ Liftore laughed. 
ey “Stop here till I return,” he said, and left the room. 
But Florimel followed, fearful of what might happen, and 2 
enraged with her brother. 
| Malcolm’s brief detention by Lizzy gave Liftore a ane 
advantage, for just as Malcolm approached the top of the great 
staircase, Liftore gained it. Hastening to secure the command — | 
of the position, and resolved to shun all parley, he stood ready — e: 
to strike. Malcolm, however, caught sight of him and _his a 
attitude in time, and, fearful of breaking his word to Lizzy, 
pulled himself up abruptly a few steps from the top—just as te 
Florimel appeared. Sal 
“MacPhail,” she said, sweeping to the stair like an indigna : 
goddess, “I discharge you from my service. Leave the house . 
instantly.” “oy 
Malcolm turned, flew down, and ran to the servants’ pit in 
half the length of the house away. As he crossed the servants’ 
hall he saw Rose. She was the only one in the house excel 
_..__Clementina to whom he could look for help. | x fess 
ae “Come after me, Rose,” he said without stopping. 
os _ She followed instantly, as fast as she could run, and saw hie 
enter the drawing-room. Florimel and Liftore were there. as he | 
earl had Florimel’s hand in his. ee 
*2 “For God's sake, my lady!” cried Malcolm, “hear me one 
___word before you promise that man anything.” | 
His lordship. started back from Florimel, and timed: upon — 
Malcolm in a fury. But he had not now the advantage of the — 
stair, and hesitated. Florimel’s eyes dilated with Tyee eal 


v 


THE DISCLOSURE. 361 


~“T tell you for the last time, my lady,” said Malcolm, “if you 
marry that man, you will marry a liar and a scoundrel.” 

Liftore laughed, and his imitation of scorn was wonderfully 
successful, for he felt sure of Florimel, now that she had thus | 
taken his part. 

Shall I ring for the servants, Lady Lossie, to put the fellow 
out?” he said. “The man is as mad as a March hare.” 

Meantime Lady Clementina, her maid having gone to send 
her man to get horses for her at once, was alone in her room, 
which was close to the drawing-room: hearing Malcolm’s voice, 
she ran to the door, and saw Rose in a listening attitude at that 
of the drawing-room. 

“What are you doing there?” she said. 

“Mr MacPhail told me to follow him, my lady, and I am 
waiting here till he wants me.” 

Clementina went into the drawing-room, and was _ present 
during all that now follows. Lizzy also, hearing loud voices and 
still afraid of mischief, had come peering up the stair, and now 
approached the other door, behind Florimel and the eazl. 
~ So! cried Florimel, ‘this is the way you keep your 
promise to my father!” 

“It is, my lady. ‘To associate the name of Liftore with his 
would be to blot the scutcheon of Lossie. He is not fit to walk 
the street with men: his touch is to you an utter degradation. 
My lady, in the name of your father, I beg a word with you in 
private.” 

“You insult me.” 

“1 beg of you, my lady—for your own dear sake.” 

“Once more I order you to leave my house, and never set 
foot in it again.” 

“You hear her ladyship?” cried Liftore. ‘Get out.” 

He approached threateningly. 

«Stand back,” said Malcolm. “If it were not that. I) 
promised the poor girl carrying your baby out there, I should 
soon ‘, 

It was unwisely said: the earl came on the bolder. For all 
Malcolm could do to parry, evade, or stop his blows, he had soon 
taken several pretty severe ones. ‘Then came the voice of Lizzy 
in an.agony from the door— 

“Haud aff o’ yersel’, Ma’colm. I canna bide it. I give ye 
back yer word.” 

“We'll manage yet, Lizzy,” answered Malcolm, and kept 
warily retreating towards a window. Suddenly he dashed his 
elbow through a pane, and gave a loud shrill whistle, the same 


ayes ives however, Clementina and Rose had darted 3 
between, and, full of rage as he was, Liftore was compelled to. 
restrain eels ~ ee 
“Oh!” he said, “if ladies want a share in the row, I must 2 
=. ‘yield my place,” and drew back. 
sits The few men servants now came hurrying all together into the 
room. 
¢ “'Take that rascal there, and put him under the pump,” 
fee uittore, ‘He is mad.” <S 
; “My fellow servants know better than touch me,’ ’ said Maleoian 
The men looked to their mistress. a 
Ee DO as my lord tells you,” she said, ““—and instantly.” 
“Men,” said Malcolm, “I have spared that foolish lord there ies 
for the sake of this fisher-girl and his child, but don’t one of you 


touch me.’ 7 
_-~--—«*Stoat was a brave enough man, and not a little jealous” of re 
___- Malcolm, but he dared not obey his mistress. hs 
ena And now came the tramp of many feet along the landing from 
se the stair-head, and the six fisherman entered, two and two. 
- - Florimel started forward. 

__ “My brave fisherman!” she cried. “Take that bad man 
MacPhail, and put him out of my grounds.” id 

Be ki “JT canna du’'t, my leddy,” answered their leader. ae é : 
cen Take Lord Liftore,” said Malcolm, “and hold him, while I e 
‘ve make him acquainted with a fact or two which he may judge of “ei 
consequence to him.” ia 
ai, The men walked straight up to the earl. He struck right | and a 
left, but was overpowered in a moment, and held fast. Bae 
ay é Stan’ still,” said Peter, “or I ha’e a han’-fu’ o’ twine’ v my ys 
pooch Vat I'll jist cast a k-not aboot yer airms wi’ in a jiffy.” ae 
ce a His lordship stood ‘still, muttering curses. ; 
ia Then Malcolm stepped into the middle of the room approach- 
-__ ing his sister. Se 
~~ *T_ tell you to leave the house,” Florimel shrieked, beside 

- herself with fury, yet pale as marble with a growing terror for Se 
__which she could ill have accounted. | 


“Florimel!” said Malcolm solemnly, aha her ice oe 
name for the first time. a 

“You insolent wretch!” she cried, panting. ‘What rig 
have you, if you be, aS you say, my base- born biornet to call 
a Py my name.” rs. 


THE DISCLOSURE. 363 


“Florimel!” repeated Malcolm, and the voice was like the 
voice of her father, “I have done what I could to serve you.” 

“ And I want no more such service !” she returned, beginning 
to tremble. 

“But you have driven me almost to extremities,” he went on, 
heedless of her interruption. “‘ Beware of doing so quite.” 

“ Will nobody take pity on me?” said Florimel, and looked 
round imploringly. Then, finding herself ready to burst into 
tears, she gathered all her pride, and stepping up to Malcolm, 
looked him in the face, and said, 

“Pray, sir! is this house yours or mine?” 

“Mine,” answered Malcolm. “I am the Marquis of Lossie, 
and while I am your elder brother and the head of the family, 
you shall never with my consent marry that base man—a man it 
would blast me to the soul to call brother.” 

Liftore uttered a fierce imprecation. 

“If you dare give breath to another such word in my sister’s 


presence, I will have you gagged,” said Malcolm. “If my 


sister marries him,” he continued, turning again to Florimel, 
*‘not one shilling shall she take with her beyond what she may 
happen to have in her purse at the moment. She is in my 
power, and I will use it to the utmost to protect her from that man.” 

“Proof!” cried Liftore sullenly. But Florimel gazed with 
pale dilated eyes in the face of the speaker. She knew his words 
were true. Her soul assured her of it. 

“To my sister,” answered Malcolm, “I will give all the proof 
she may please to require; to Lord Liftore I will not even 
repeat\my assertion. To him I will give no shadow of proof. 
I will but cast him out of my house. Stoat, order horses for 
Lady Bellair.” 

“¢Gien ye please, sir, my Lord,” replied Stoat, “the Lossie 
Airms horses is ordered a’ready for Lady Clementina.” 

“Will my Lady Clementina oblige me by yielding her horses 
to Lady Bellair?” said Malcolm, turning to her. 

‘Certainly, my lord,” answered Clementina. 

“Vou, I trust, my ‘lady,” said Malcolm, “will stay a little 
longer with my sister.” 

Lady Bellair came up. 

‘My lord,” she said, “is this the marquis or the fisherman’s 
way of treating a lady >” 

“Neither. But do not drive me to give the rein to my 
tongue. Let it be enough to say that my house shall never be 
what your presence would make it” 

He turned to the fishermen. 


\ » 


Fah 


364 |. THE MAROUIS OF LOSSIE. 


“Three of you take that lord to the town gate, and leave him — Bai: 


on the other side of it. Huis servant shall follow as soon as the 
horses come.” 
“JT will go with you,” said Florimel, crossing to Lady Bellair. 
Malcolm took her by the arm. For one moment she struggled, 


but finding no one dared interfere, submitted, and was led from ~ 


the room like a naughty child. 

“Keep my lord there till I return,” he said as he went. 

He led her into the room which had been her mother’s 
boudoir, and when he had shut the door, 

“Florimel,” he said, “‘I have striven to serve you the best 
way I knew. Your father, when he confessed me his heir, 


begged me to be good to you, and I promised him. Would I~ 


have given all these months of my life to the poor labour of a 
groom, allowed my people to be wronged and oppressed, my 
grandfather to be a wanderer, and my best friend to sit with his 
lips of wisdom sealed, but for your sake? I can hardly say it 
was for my father’s sake, for I should have done the same had 


he never said a word about you. Florimel, I loved my sister, 


and longed for her goodness. But she has foiled all my 
endeavours. She has not loved or followed the truth. She 
has been proud and disdainful, and careless of might. 
Yourself young and pure, and naturally recoiling from evil, 
you have yet cast from you the devotion of a noble, gifted, 
large-hearted, and great-souled man, for the miserable preference 
of the smallest, meanest, vilest of men. Nor that only! for 
with him you have sided against the woman he most bitterly 
wrongs: and therein you wrong the nature and the God of 
women. Once more, I pray you to give up this man; to let 
your true self spcak and send him away.” 

“Sir, I go with my Lady Bellair, driven from her father’s 
house by one who calls himself my brother. My lawyer shall 
make inquiries.” . 

She would have left the room, but he intercepted her. 

“Florimel,” he said, “you are casting the pearl of your 
womanhood before a swine. He will trample it under his feet 


and turn again and rend you. He will treat you worse still than — 


poor Lizzy, whom he troubles no more with his presence.” 
He had again taken her arm in his great grasp. 
“Tet me go. You are brutal. I shall scream.” 
“You shall not go until you have heard all the truth.” 


“What! more truth still? Your truth is anything but pleasant.” _ 
“It is more unpleasant yet than you surmise. Florimel, you 


have driven me to it. I would have prepared you a shield 


THE DISCLOSURE. 365 


& 
against the shock which must come, but you compel me to 
wound you to the quick. I would have had you receive the bitter 
truth from lips you loved, but you drove those lips of honour 
from you, and now there are left to utter it only the lips you hate, 
yet the truth you shall receive: it may help to save you from 
weakness, arrogance, and falsehood.—Sister, your mother was 
never Lady Lossie.” 

“You lie. I know you lie. Because you wrong me, you 
would brand me with dishonour, to take from me as well the 
sympathy of the world. But I defy you.” 

“Alas! there is no help, sister. Your mother indeed passed 
as Lady Lossie, but my mother, the true Lady Lossie, was alive 
all the time, and in truth, died only last year. For twenty years 
my mother suffered for yours in the eye of the law. You are no 
better than the little child his father denied in your presence. Give 
that man his dismissal, or he will give you yours. Never doubt 


it. Refuse again, and I go from this room to publish in the 


next the fact that you are neither Lady Lossie nor Lady 
Florimel Colonsay. You have no right to any name but your 
mother’s. You are Miss Gordon.” 

She gave a great gasp at the word, but bravely fought the - 
horror that was taking possession of her. She stood with one 
hand on the back of a chair, her face white, her eyes starting, her 
mouth a little open and rigid—her whole appearance, except for 
the breath that came short and quick, that of one who had died 
in sore pain. 

“ All that is now left you,” concluded Malcolm, “is the choice 
between sending Liftore away, and being abandoned by him. 
That choice you must now make.” 

The poor girl tried to speak, but could not. Her fire was 
burning out, her forced strength fast failing her. 

“ Florimel,” said Malcolm, and knelt on one knee and took 
her hand. It gave a flutter as if it would fly like a bird ; but the 
net of his love held it, and it lay passive and cold. “ Florimel, 
I will be your true brother. I am your brother, your very own 
brother, to live for you, love you, fight for you, watch and ward 
you, till a true man takes you for his wife.” Her hand quivered 
like a leaf. “Sister, when you and I appear before our father, 
I shall hold up my face before him: will you?” 

«Send him away,” she breathed rather than said, and sank on. 
the floor. He lifted her, laid her on a couch, and returned to. 
the drawing-room. 

“My lady Clementina,” he said, “will you oblige me by, 
going to my sister in the room at the top of the stair?” 


366 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


“T will, my lord,” she answered, and went. 
Malcolm walked up to Liftore. 

_ “My lord,” he said, “ my sister takes leave of you.” 
“‘T must have my dismissal from her own lips.” 
~LOu shall have it from the hands of my fishermen. Take 

him away. 

“You shall hear from me, my lord marquis, if ag you be,” 
said Liftore. 


“Let it be of your repentance, then, my lord,” said Malcolm. 


“That I shall be glad to hear of.” 
As he turned from him, he saw Caley gliding through the 
little group of servants towards the door. He walked after her, 


laid his hand on her shoulder, and whispered a word in her ear, 


she grew gray rather than white, and stood still. 

Turning again to go to Florimel, he saw the fishermen stopped 
with their charge in the doorway by Mr Morrison and Mr 
Soutar, entering together. 


“My lord! my lord ! !” said the lawyer, coming hastily up to 


him, “there can be surely no occasion for such—such— measures!” 

Catching sight of Malcolm’s wounded forehead, however, he 
supplemented the remark with a low exclamation of astonishment 
and dismay—the tone saying almost as clearly as words, “ How 
il and foolishly everything is managed without a lawyer!” 
Malcolm only smiled, and went up to the magistrate, whom he 
led into the middle of the room, saying, 

“Mr Morrison, every one here knows you: tell them who I am.” 

“The Marquis of Lossie, my lord,” answered Mr Morrison ; 
“and from my heart I congratulate your people that at length 
you assume the rights and honours of your position.” 


A murmur of pleasure arose in response. Ere it ceased, 


Malcolm started and sprung to the door. ‘There stood 
Lenorme! He seized him by the arm, and, without a word of 
explanation, hurried him to the room where his sister was. He 
called Clementina, drew her from the room, half pushed 
Lenorme in, and closed the door. 

“Will you meet me on the sand-hill at sunset, my lady?” 
he said. , 

She smiled assent. He gave her the key of the tunnel, hinted 
that she might leave the two to themselves for awhile, and 
returned to his friends in the drawing-room. 

Having begged them to excuse him for a little while, and 


desired Mrs Courthope to serve luncheon for them, he ran to ~ 


his grandfather, dreading lest any other tongue than his own 
should yield him the opened secret. He was but just in time, 


THE DISCLOSURE. 367 


for already the town was in a tumult, and the spreading ripples 
of the news were fast approaching Duncan’s ears. | 

Malcolm found him, expectant and restless) When he 
disclosed himself, he manifested little astonishment, only took 
him in his arms and pressed him to his bosom, saying, “Ta 
Lort pe praised, my son! and she wouldn’t pe at aal surprised.” 
Then he broke out in a fervent ejaculation of Gaelic, during 
which he turned instinctively to his pipes, for through them lay 
the final and only sure escape for the prisoned waters of the 
overcharged reservoir of his feelings. While he played, Malcolm 
slipped out, and hurried to Miss Horn. 

One word to her was enough. The stern old woman burst 
into tears, crying, 

“Oh, my Grisel! my Grisel! Luik doon frae yer bonny 
hoose amo’ the stars, an’ see the braw laad left ahint ye, an’ 
praise the lord ’at ye ha’e sic a son 0’ yer boady to come hame 
to ye whan a’’s ower.” 

She sobbed ‘and wept. for a while without restraint. Then 
suddenly she rose, dabbed her eyes indignantly, and cried, 

“Hoot! I’m an auld fule. A body wad think I hed feelin’s 
a 

Malcolm laughed, and she could not help joining him. 

“Ye maun come the morn an’ chise yer ain room ? the 
Hoose,” he said. 

“What mean ye by that, laddie ?” 

“* At ye’ll ha’e to come an’ bide wi’ me noo.” 

“ Deed an’ I s’ du naething o’ the kin’, Ma’colm! Hard 
ever onybody sic nonsense! What wad I du wi’ Jean? An’ I 
cudna thole men-fowk to wait upo’ me. I wad be cleah 
affrontit.” | 

“Weel, weel! we'll see,” said Malcolm. 

On his way back to the House, he knocked at Mrs Catanach’s 
door, and said a few words to her which had a remarkable effect 
on the expression of her plump countenance and deep-set black 
eyes. 

"When he reached home, he ran up the main staircase, knocked 
at the first door, opened it, and peeped in. There sat Lenorme 
on the couch, with Florimel on his knees, nestling her head 
against his shoulder, like a child that had been very naughty but 
was fully forgiven. Her face was blotted with her tears, and her 
hair was everywhere ; but there was a light of dawning goodness 
all about her, such as had never shone in her atmosphere before. 
By what stormy-sweet process the fountain of this light had been 


unsealed, no one ever knew but themselves. 


te F as ah 


368 _ THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


She did not move when Malcolm entered—more than just to — 


bring the palms of her hands together, and look up in his face, 
“‘ Have you told him a@//, Florimel?” he asked. 


“Yes, Malcolm,” she answered. ‘Tell him again yourself.” ~ 


“No, Florimel. Once is enough.” 

“T told him a//,” she said with a gasp; then gave a wild little 
cry, and, with subdued exultation, added, ‘‘and-he doves me yet! 
_ He has taken the girl without a name to hale heart !” 

“ No wonder,” said Malcolm, ‘‘ when she brought it with her.” 


“Yes,” said Lenorme, “I Hit took the diamond casket that — | 


held my bliss, and now I could dare the angel Gabriel to match 
happinesses with me.” 

Poor Florimel, for all her worldly ways, was but a child. Bad 
associates had filled her with worldly maxims and words and 
thoughts and judgments. She had never loved Liftore, she had 
only taken delight in his flatteries. And now had come the 


shock of a terrible disclosure, whose significance she read in 


remembered looks and tones and behaviours of the world. Her 
insolence to Malcolm when she supposed his the nameless fate, 
had recoiled in lurid interpretation of her own. She was a pariah 
—-without root, without descent, without fathers to whom to be 
gathered. She was nobody. From the courted and flattered 
and high-seated and powerful, she was a nobody! ‘Then suddenly 
to this poor houseless, wind-beaten, rain-wet nobody, a house— 
no, a home she had once looked into with longing, had opened, 
and received her to its heart, that it might be fulfilled which was 
written of old, “ A man shall be as an hiding-place from the wind, 
and a covert from the tempest.” Knowing herself a nobody, she 


now first began to be a somebody. She had been dreaming ~ 


pleasant but bad dreams: she woke, and here was a lovely, 
unspeakably blessed and good reality, which had been waiting 
for her all the time on the threshold of her sleep! She was 
baptized into it with the tears of sorrow and shame. She had 
been a fool, but now she knew it, and was going to be wise. 

“Will you come to your brother, Florimel?” said Malcolm 
tenderly, holding out his arms. 


Lenorme raised her. She went softly to him, and laid herself 


on his bosom. 
“Forgive me, brother,” she said, and held up her face. 
He kissed her forehead and lips, took her in his arms, and laid 
her again on Lenorme’s knees. 
“I give her to you,” he said, ‘for you are good.” 
With that he left them, and sought Mr Morrison and Mr 
Soutar, who were waiting him over a glass of wine after their 


= Re te 
 « 
er 


THE ASSEMBLY. 369 


lunch. An hour of business followed, in which, amongst other _ 
matters, they talked about the needful arrangements for a dinner 


_ to his people, fishers'and farmers and all. 


After the gentlemen took their leave, nobody saw him for hours. 
Till sunset approached he remained alone, shut up in the Wizard’s 
Chamber, the room in which he was born. Part of the time he 
occupied in writing to Mr Graham. 

As the sun’s orbed furnace fell behind the tumbling waters, 
Malcolm turned his face inland from the wet strip of shining 


_ shore on which he had been pacing, and ascended the sandhill. 


From the other side Clementina, but a moment later, ascended 
also. On the top they met, in the red light of the sunset. They 
clasped each the other’s hand, and stood for a moment in silence. 

“Ah, my lord!” said the lady, “how shall I thank you that 
you kept your secret from me! But my heart is sore to lose 
my fisherman.” 

“My lady,” returned Malcolm, “ you have not lost your fisher- 
man; you have only found your groom.” 

And the sun went down, and the twilight came, and the night 
followed, and the world of sea and land and wind and vapour 
was around them, and the universe of stars and spaces over and 
under them, and eternity within them, and the heart of each for 
a chamber to the other, and God filling all—nay, nay—God’s 
heart containing, infolding, cherishing all—saving all, from height 
to height of intensest being, by the bliss of that love whose 
absolute devotion could utter itself only in death. 


CHAPTER LXXI1 
THE ASSEMBLY. 


THAT same evening, Duncan, in full dress, claymore and dirk at 
his sides, and carrying the great Lossie pipes, marched first 
through the streets of the upper, then through the closes of the 
lower town, followed by the bellman who had been appointed 
crier upon his disappearance. At the proper stations, Duncan 
blew a rousing pibroch, after which the bellman, who, for the 
dignity of his calling, insisted on a prelude of three strokes of his © 
clapper, proclaimed aloud that Malcolm, Marquis of Lossie, 
desired the presence of each and every of his tenants in the royal 
burgh of Portlossie, Newton and Seaton, in the town-hall of the 
2A 


B70 a THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


same, at seven of the clock upon the evening next following. 
The proclamation ended, the piper sounded one note three times, 
and they passed to the next station. When they had gone 
through the Seaton, they entered a carriage waiting for them at 
the sea-gate, and were driven to Scaurnose, and thence again to 
the several other villages on the coast belonging to the mar~1is, 
making at each in like manner the same announcement. 
Portlossie was in a ferment of wonder, satisfaction, and pleasure. 
There were few in it who were not glad at the accession of 
Malcolm, and with every one of those few the cause lay in him- 
self. In the shops, among the nets, in the curing-sheds, in the 
houses and cottages, nothing else was talked about; and stories 


and reminiscences innumerable were brought out, chiefly to prove | 


that Malcolm had always appeared likely to turn out somebody, 
the narrator not seldom modestly hinting at a glimmering fore- 
sight on his own part of what had now been at length revealed to 
the world. His friends were jubilant as revellers. For Meg 
Partan, she ran from house to house like a maniac, laughing and 
crying. It was as if the whole Seaton had suddenly been trans- 
lated. The men came crowdirg about Duncan, congratulating 
him and asking him a hundred questions. But the old man 
maintained a reticence whose dignity was strangely mingled of 
pomp and grace; sat calm and stately as feeling the glow of 
reflected honour; would not, by word, gesture, tone, or exclama- 
tion, confess to any surprise; behaved as if he had known it all 
the time ; made no pretence however of having known it, merely 
treated the fact as not a whit more than might have been looked 
for by. one who had known Malcolm as he had known him. 

Davy, in his yacht uniform, was the next morning appointed 
the marquis’s personal attendant, and a running time he had of 
it for a fortnight. 

Almost the first thing that fell to him in his office was to show 
into the room on the ground floor where his master sat—the 
same in which for ages the lords of Lossie had been wont to 


transact what little business any of them ever attended to—a pale, — 


feeble man, bowed by the weight of a huge brass-clasped volume 
under each arm. His lordship rose and met him with out- 
stretched hand. 


“T am glad indeed to see you, Mr Crathie,” he said, “but I 


fear you are out too soon.” 


“‘T am quite well since yesterday, my lord,” returned the factor, 


his face shining with pleasure. ‘‘ Your lordship’s accession has 
made a young man of me again. Here I am to render account 
of my stewardship.” 


THE ASSEMBLY. 37) 


*T want none, Mr Crathie—nothing, that is, beyond a summary 
Statement of how things stand with me.” 


“I should like to satisfy your lordship that I have deal 


honestly *—here the factor paused for a moment, then with an 


effort added—“ by you, my lord.” 

“One word,” said Malcolm ‘‘—the last of the sort, I believe, 
that will ever pass between us. Thank God! we had made it up 
before yesterday.—If you have ever been hard upon any of my 
tenants, not to say unfair, you have wronged me infinitely more 
than if you had taken from me. God be with meas I prefer ruin 
to wrong. Remember, besides, that my tenants are my charge 
and care. For you, my representative, therefore, to do one of 
them an fhjury is to do me a double injury—to wrong my tenant, 
and to wrong him in my name.” 

“Ah, my lord! you don’t know how they would take advantage 
of you, if there were nobody to look after your interests.” 

“Then do look after them, sir. It would be bad for them to 
succeed, as well as crippling to me. Only be sure, with the 
thought of the righteous God to elevate your sense of justice, that 
you are in the right. If doubtful, then give in.— And now, if any 
man thinks he has cause of complaint, I leave it to you, with the 
help of the new light that has been given you, to reconsider the 
matter, and, where needful, to make reparation. You must be 
the friend of my tenant as much as of his landlord. I have no 
interests inimical to those of my tenants. If any man comes to 
me with complaint, I will send him to restate his case to you, with 
the understanding that, if you will not listen to him, he is to come 
to me again, when I shall hear both sides and judge between. If 
after six months you should desire me to go over the books with 


you, I will do so. As to your loyalty to my family and its affairs, 


of that I never had a shadow of suspicion.” 

As he ended, Malcolm held out his hand. The factor’s 
trembled in his strong grasp. - 

“Mistress Crathie is sorely vexed, my lord,” he said, rising to ~ 
take his leave, “at things both said and done in the dark.” 

Malcolm laughed. 

“Give Mrs Crathie my compliments,” he said, “and tell her 
aman is more than a marquis. If she will after this treat every 
honest fisherman as if he might possibly turn out a lord, she and 
I shall be more than quits.” 

The next morning he carried her again a few mackerel he had 
just caught, and she never forgot the lesson given her. That ° 
morning, I may mention, he did not go fishing alone, but had a 
ladv with him in the dinghy; and indeed they were together, in 


¥ bm x ; . : aaa re 
45 ‘ . E cus 
ee 


392 0) THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


one place and another, the most of the day—at one time flying he 


along the fields, she on the bay mare, and he on Kelpie. 


When the evening came, the town-hall was crammed—men 
standing on all the window-sills; and so many could not get 


in that Malcolm proposed they should occupy the square in front. 


A fisherman in garb and gesture, not the less a gentleman and a> 


marquis, he stood on the steps of the town-hall and spoke to his 
people. They received him with wild enthusiasm. 


“The open air is better for everything,” he began. “ Fishers, I — 


have called you first, because you are my own people. I am, and 
shall be a fisherman, after such fashion, I trust, as will content my 


old comrades. How things have come about, I shall not now tell — 


you. Come all of you and dine with me, and you shall hear 
enough to satisfy at least lawful curiosity. At present my care 
is that you should understand the terms upon which it is possible 
for us to live together as friends. I make no allusion-to personal 


friendships. A true friend is for ever a friend. And I venture 


to say my old friends know best both what I am and what I shall 
be. As to them I have no shadow of anxiety. But I would 
gladly be a friend to all, and will do my endeavour to that end. 

“You of Portlossie shall have your harbour cleared without 
delay.” 


In justice to the fishers I here interrupt my report to state that _ 


the very next day they set about clearing the harbour themselves. 
It was their business—in part at least, they said, and they were 
ashamed of having left it so long. This did much towards 
starting well for a new order of things. 

“ You of Scaurnose shall hear the blasting necessary for your 
harbour commence within a fortnight ; and every house shall ere 


long have a small piece of land at a reasonable rate allotted to it. 


But I feel bound to mention that there are some among you upon 
whom, until I see that they carry themselves differently, I must 


keep an eye. That they have shown themselves unfriendly to 


myself, in my attempts to persuade them to what they knew to 
be right, I shall endeavour to forget, but I give them warning 
that whoever shall hereafter disturb the peace or interfere with 
the liberty of my people, shall assuredly be cast out of my borders, 
and that as soon as the law will permit. 

“T shall take measures that all complaints shall be heard, and 


all save foolish ones heeded ; for, as much as in me lies, I will — 
to execute justice and judgment and righteousness in the land. 


Whoever oppresses or wrongs his neighbour shall have to do with 
me. And to aid me in doing justice, I pray the help of every 
honest man. I have not been so long among you without having 


THE ASSEMBLY. 373 


in Some measure distinguished between the men who have heart 
and brain, and the men who have merely a sense of their own im- 
portance—which latter class unhappily, always takes itself for 
the former. I will deal with every man as I find him. I am 
set to rule, and rule I will. He who loves righteousness, will 
help me to rule ; he who loves it not, shall be ruled, or depart.” 
The address had been every now and. then interrupted by a 
hearty cheer; at this point the cheering was greatly pro- 
longed ; after it there was no more. For thus he went on: 

“ And now I am about to give you proof that I mean what I 
say, and that evil shall not come to the light without being noted 
and dealt with. 

“There are in this company two women—my eyes are at this 
moment upon them where they stand together. One of them is 
already well-known to you all by sight : now you shall know, not 
what she looks, but what she is. Her name, or at least that by 
which she goes among you, is Barbara Catanach. ‘The other is 
an Englishwoman of whom you know nothing. Her name is 
Caley.” 

All eyes were turned upon the two. Even Mrs Catanach was 
cowed by the consciousness of the universal stare, and a kind 
of numb thrill went through her from head to foot. 

“Well assured that if I brought a criminal action against 
them, it would hang them both, I trust you will not imagine 
it revenge that moves me thus to expose them. In refrain- 
ing from prosecuting them, I bind myself of necessity to see 
that they work no more evil. In giving them time for 
repentance, I take the consequences upon myself. I am 
bound to take care that they do not employ the respite in 
doing mischief to their neighbours. Without precaution I could 
not be justified in sparing them. Therefore those women shall 
not go forth to pass for harmless members of society, and 
see the life and honour of others lie bare to their secret attack. _ 
They shall live /ere, in this town, thoroughly known, and abso- 
lutely distrusted. And that they may thus be known and dis- 
trusted, I publicly declare that I hold proof against these women 
of having conspired to kill me. From the effects of the poison 
_ they succeeded in giving me, I fear I shall never altogether re- 
cover. I can prove also, to the extreme of circumstantial 
evidence, that there is the blood of one child at least upon the 
hands of each ; and that there are mischiefs innumerable upon 
their lying tongues, it were an easy task to convince you. If I 
wrong them, let them accuse me ; and whether they lose or gain 
their suit, I promise before you for witnesses, I will pay all ; only 


THE MARQUIS oF LOSSIE, 


oe thereby they will compel me to bring my actions for murder 
conspiracy. Let them choose. 
_ “Hear what I have determined concerning them. The womat 


cottage they shall have rent free : Alo could receive money fror 
such hands? Iwill appoint them also a sufficiency for life anc ; 
maintenance, bare indeed, for I would not have them comfortable. — 
oe > Butithey shall be free to work if they can find any to employ ~ 
them. If, however, either shall go beyond the bounds I set, she 
=. 2 shall be followed the moment she is missed, and that with. 
-__ warrant for her apprehension. And I beg all “honest people tous 

keep an eye upon them. According as they live shall their lif 4 
be. If they come to repentance, they will bless the day I re 
resolved upon such severe measures on their behalf. Let. then 
go to their place.” 

I will not try to describe the devilish look, mingled of convene . 
and hate, that possessed the countenance of the midwife, as, 
with head erect, and eyes looking straight before her, she obeye 
the command. Caley, white as death, trembled and tottered 
nor dared once look up as she followed her companion to thei 
appointed hell. Whether they made it pleasant for each other 
ae: my reader may debate with himself. Before many months had @ — 
gone by, stared at and shunned by all, even by Miss Horn’s — 
Jean, driven back upon her own memories, and the pictures that m 
rose out of them, and deprived of every chance of indulging her — 

_ dominant passion for mischievous influence, the midwife’s face told | 
sucha different tale, that the schoolmaster began to cherish a feeble. eo 
hope that within a few years Mrs Catanach might get so far as 
to begin to suspect she was a sinner—that she had actually done — 
things she ought not to have done. One of those things that — 
same night Malcolm heard from the lips of Duncan, a tale of — 

2 horror and dismay. Not until then did he know, after all he ~ 
__knew concerning her, what the woman was capable of. ¥ 
er At his own entreaty, Duncan was formally recognized as piper 34 
Ay: to the Marquis of Lossie. His ambition reached no higher. 
: ‘Malcolm himself saw to his perfect equipment, heedful specially — 4 


e 


that his kilt and plaid should be of Duncan’s own tartan of ted 
he and blue and green. His dirk and brc* ‘sword he had new 
sheathed, with silver mountings. A great silver ‘brooch witha 
____ a big cairngorm in the centre, took the place of the brass one, re 
Oa which henceforth was laid up among the precious things in the 
ve little armoury, and the badge of his clan in gold, with rubies an d 
.. 3 ees for the bells of the heather, glowed on his bonnet. 


he: _ And Malcolm’s guests, as long as Duncan continued able to It 


THE ASSEMBLY. 375. 


the bag, had to endure as best they might, between each course 
of every dinner without fail, two or three minutes of uproar and 
outcry from the treble throat of the powerful Lossie pipes. By 
his own desire, the piper had a chair and small table set for him 
behind and to the right of his chief, as he called him; there he+ 
ate with the family and guests, waited upon by Davy, part of 
whose business it was to hand him the pipes at the proper 
moment, whereupon he rose to his feet, for even he with all his 
experience and habitude was unable in a sitting posture to keep 
that stand of pipes full of wind, and raised such a storm of sound 
as made the windows tremble. A lady guest would now and then 
venture to hint that the custom was rather a trying one for Eng- 
lish ears ; but Clementina would never listen to a breath against 
Duncan’s music. Her respect and affection for the old man were 
unbounded. | 

Malcolm was one of the few who understand the shelter of 
light, the protection to be gained against lying tongues by the 
discarding of needless reticence, and the open presentation of 
*he truth. Many men who would not tell a lie, yet seem to 
tave faith in concealment: they would rather not reveal the 
cruth ; darkness seems to offer them the cover of a friendly wing. 
But there is no veil like light—no-adamantine armour against hurt 
like the truth. ‘To Malcolm it was one of the promises of the 
kingdom that there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed. 
He was anxious, therefore, to tell his people, at the coming din- 
ner, the main points of his story, and certain that such openness 
would also help to lay the foundation of confidence between him 
and his people. The one difficulty in the way was the position 
of Florimel. But that could not fail to appear in any case, and 
he was satisfied that even for her sake it was far better to speak 
openly ; for then the common heart would take her in and cover 
her. He consulted, therefore, with Lenorme, who went to find 
her. She came, threw her arms round his neck and begged him 
to say whatever he thought best. 

To add the final tinge to the rainbow of Malcolm’s joy, on the 
morning of the dinner the schoolmaster arrived. It would be 
hard to say whether Malcolm or Clementina was the more de- 
lighted to see him. He said little with his tongue, but much | 
with his eyes and face and presence. 

This time the tables were not set in different parts of the 
grounds, but gathered upon the level of the drive and the ad- 
jacent lawny spaces between the house and the trees. Malcolm, ~ 
in full highland dress as chief of his clan, took the head of the 
central table, with Florimel in the place of honour at his right 


_ hand, and Clementina on his left. Tedérme Sar nea Flo 
PA Bid Amie Mair next to Lenorme. On the other side, ; 
_ Graham sat next to Clementina, Miss Horn next to Mr Graha hye 
- and Blue Peter next to Miss Horn. Except Mr Morrison 
“8 * he. had asked none who were not his tenants or servants, 
or in some way connected with the estates, except inde 
afew whom he counted old friends, amongst them some age’ 
_ beggar-folk, waiting their summons to Abraham’s bosom—in 
which there was no such exceptional virtue on the marquis’ 
_ part, for, the poor law not having yet invaded Scotland, a ma 
was not without the respect of his neighbours merely because h 
was a beggar. He set Mr Morrison to preside at the farmers 
Raailes: and had all the fisher-folk about himself. 
When the main part of the dinner was over, he rose, and wit 
-as much circumstance as he thought desirable, told his story. 
beginning with the parts in it his uncle and Mrs Catanach had 
taken. It was, however, he said, a principle in the history o 
the world, that evil should bring ‘forth good, and his poor littl 
cock-boat had been set adrift upon an ocean of blessing. For 
had he not been taken to the heart of one of the noblest and 


covered with a rich cloth by his side. 

“You all know my grandfather,” he went on, “ and you al 
respect him.” 

At this rose a great shout. 

“T thank you, my friends,” he continued. “My desire is 
that every soul upon land of mine should carry himself 
Duncan MacPhail as if he were in blood that which he is 
deed and in truth, my grandfather.” | 

A second great shout arose, which wavered and sank when 
they saw the old man bow his head upon his hands. -, Nee 

He went on to speak of the privileges he alone of all his race 
had ever enjoyed—the privileges of toil and danger, with all 
their experiences of human dependence and divine aid; the 
Be lice of the confidence and companionship of ‘honourables 
labouring men, and the understanding of their ways and — 
thoughts and feelings ; and, above all, the privilege of the — 
_ friendship and _ instruction of the schoolmaster, to whom he 
owed more than eternity could reveal. ae, 

Then he turned again to his narrative, and told how his 
Bh father, falsely informed that his wife and child were dead, 
fe married Florimel’s mother ; how his mother, out of on n 


et: 


THE ASSEMBLY. CVE Le 


- for both of them, held her peace ; how for twenty years she had 
lived with her cousin Miss Horn, and held her peace even 
from her; how at last, when, having succeeded to the 
property, she heard he was coming to the House, the thought of 
his nearness yet unapproachableness—in this way at least he, 
the child of both, interpreted the result—so worked upon a 
worn and enfeebled frame, that she’ died. 

_ Then he told how Miss Horn, after his mother’s death, came 


upon letters revealing the secret which she had all along known. 


must exist, but after which, from love and respect for her cousin, 
she had never inquired. 

Last of all he told how, in a paroxysm of rage, Mrs Catanach 
had let the secret of his birth escape her; how she had 
afterwards made affidavit concerning it; and how his father 
had upon his death-bed, with all necessary legal observances, 
acknowledged him his son and heir. 

“And now, to the mighty gladness of my soul,” he said, 


looking on Florimel at his side, ‘‘my dearly loved and honoured 


sister, loved and honoured long before I knew she was my own, 
has accepted me as her brother, and I do not think she greatly 
regrets the loss of the headship of the house which she has 
passed over to me. She will lose little else. And of all women 
it may well be to her a small matter to lose a mere title, seeing 
she is so soon to change her name for one who will bring her 
honour of a more enduring reality. For he who is about to 
become her husband is not only one of the noblest of men, but a 
‘man of genius whose praises she will hear on all sides. One of 
his works, the labour and gift of love, you shall see when we 
rise from the table. It is a portrait of your late landlord, my 
father, painted partly from a miniature, partly from my sister, 
_ partly from the portraits of the family, and partly, I am happy to 
_ think, from myself. You must yourselves judge of the truth of 
it. And you will remember that Mr Lenorme never saw my 
father. I say this, not to excuse, but to enhance his work. 

“My tenants, I will do my best to give you fair play. My 
‘friend and factor, Mr Crathie, has confided to me his doubts 
whether he may not have been a little hard: he is prepared to 
reconsider some of your cases. Do not imagine that I am 
_ going to be a careless man of business. I want money, for I 
have enough to do with it, if only to set right much that is 
wrong. But let God judge between you and me. 

“My fishermen, every honest man of you is my friend, and 
you shall know it. Between you and me that is enough. But 
for the sake of harmony, and right, and order, and that I may 


378 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


keep near you, I shall appoint three men of yourselves in each 
village, to whom any man or woman may go with request or 
complaint. If two of those three men judge the matter fit to 
refer to me, the probability is that I shall see it as they do. If 
any man think them scant of justice towards him, let him come 
tome. Should I find myself in doubt, I have here at my side 
my beloved and honoured master to whom to apply for counsel, 
knowing that what oracle he may utter I shall receive straight 
from the innermost parts of a temple of the Holy Ghost. 
Friends, if we be honest with ourselves, we shall be honest with 
each other. 

“And, in conclusion, why should you hear from any lips but 
my own, that this lady beside me, the daughter of an English. 
earl of ancient house, has honoured the house of Lossie by con- 
senting to become its marchioness? Lady Clementina Thorni- 
croft possesses large estates in the south of England, but not for 
them did I seek her favour—as you will be convinced when you 
reflect what the fact involves which she has herself desired me 
to make known to you—namely, that it was while yet she was 
unacquainted with my birth and position, and had never dreamed 
that I was other than only a fisherman and a groom, that she 
accepted me for her husband.—I thank my God.” 

With that he took his seat, and after hearty cheering, a glass 
or two of wine, and several speeches, all rose, and went to look 
at the portrait of the late marquis. 


CHAPTER LXXIL. 
KNOTTED STRANDS. 


LADY CLEMENTINA had to return to England to see her lawyers, 
and arrange her affairs. Before she went, she would gladly 
have gone with Malcolm over every spot where had passed any 
portion of his history, and at each heard its own chapter or 
paragraph ; but Malcolm obstinately refused to begin such a 
narration before Clementina was mistress of the region to which 
it mainly belonged. After that, he said, he would, even more 
gladly, he believed, than she, occupy all the time that could be 
spared from the duties of the present in piecing together the 
broken reflections of the past in the pools of memory, until they 
had lived both their lives over again together, from earliest 


KNOTTED STRANDS, 379 


‘recollection to the time when the two streams flowed into one, | 
thenceforth to mingle more and more inwardly to endless ages. 
So the Psyche was launched. Lady Clementina, Florimel, 
and Lenorme were the passengers, and Malcolm, Blue Peter, and 
Davy the crew. There was no room for servants, yet was there no 
lack of service. ‘They had rough weather a part of the time, and 
neither Clementina nor Lenorme was altogether comfortable, 
but they made a rapid voyage, and were all well when they 


landed at Greenwich. 


Knowing nothing of Lady Bellair’s proceedings, they sent Davy 
to reconnoitre in Portland Place. He brought back word that 
there was no one in the house but an old woman. So Malcolm. 
took Florimel there. Everything belonging to their late visitors 
had vanished, and nobody knew where they had gone. 

Searching the drawers and cabinets, Malcolm, to his unspeak- 
able delight, found a miniature of his mother, along with one of his 
father—a younger likeness than he had yet seen. Also he found 
a few letters of his mother—mostly mere notes in pencil; but 
neither these nor those of his father which Miss Horn had given 
him, would he read: “‘ What right has life over the secrets of 
death?” he said. “Or rather, what right have we who sleep 
over the secrets of those who have waked from their sleep and 
left the fragments of their dreams behind them?” Lovingly he 
laid them together, and burned them to dust flakes. 

“My mother shall tell me what she pleases, when I find her,” 
he said. ‘‘She shall not reprove me for reading her letters to 
my father.” 

They were married at Wastbeach, both couples in the same 
ceremony. Immediately after the wedding, the painter and his 
bride set out for Rome, and the marquis and marchioness went 
on board the Psyche. For nothing would content Clementina, 
troubled at the experience of her first voyage, but she must get 
herself accustomed to the sea, as became the wife of a fisherman ; 
therefore in no way would she journey but on board the Psyche ; 
and as it was the desire of each to begin their married life at 
home, they sailed direct for Portlossie. After a good voyage, 
however, they landed, in order to reach home quietly, at Duff 
Harbour, took horses from there, and arrived at Lossie House 
late in the evening. 

Malcolm had written to the housekeeper to prepare for them 
the Wizard’s Chamber, but to alter nothing on walls or in 
furniture. That room, he had resolved, should be the first he 
occupied with his bride. Mrs Courthope was scandalized at 
the idea of taking an earl’s daughter to sleep in the garret, not 


a 


_ to mention that the room had for centuries had an ill name; 
but she had no choice, and therefore contented herself with 
doing all that lay in the power of woman, under such severe 
__ restrictions, to make the dingy old room cheerful. se 
Alone at length in their somewhat strange quarters, concern- _ 
ing which Malcolm had merely told her that the room was that 
in which he was born—what place fitter, thought Clementina, 
__ wherein to commence the long and wonderful story she hungered 
to hear. Malcolm would still have delayed it, but she asked — 
question upon question till she had him fairly afloat. He had not | 
_. gone far, however, before he had to make mention of the stair in- 
_ the wall, which led from the place where they sat, straight from 
the house. a 
“Can there be such a stair in this room?” she asked in surpise. _ 
__. He rose, took a candle, opened a door, then another, and — 
showed her the first of the steps down which the midwife had — 
-_. carried him, and descending which, twenty years after, his father — 
_ had come by his death. | 
«Tet us go down,” said Clementina. 
“‘ Are you not afraid? Look,” said Malcolm. Pe 
“ Afraid, and you with me!” she exclaimed. = 
“ But it is dark and the steps are broken.” : te 
“Tf it led to Hades, I would go with my fisherman. The — 
only horror would be to be left behind.” ~ 
ae “Come then,” said Malcolm, “ only you must be very careful.” 
a He laid a shawl on her shoulders, and down they went, 
_ Malcolm a few steps in front, holding a candle to every step 
_ for her, many being broken. 2. 
) They came at length where the stair ceased in ruin. He 
leaped down; she stooped, put her hands on his shoulder, and — 
__ dropped into his arms. Then over the fallen rubbish, out by the 
_ groaning door, they went into the moonlight. # 
___Clementina was merry as a child. All was so safe and peaceful 
with her fisherman! She would not hear of returning. They 
must have a walk in the moonlight first! So downthestepsand _ 
_ the winding path into the valley of the burn, and up to the flower- ae 
_ garden they wandered, Clementina telling him how sick themoon- 
light had made her feel that night she met him first on the Boars 
__ ‘Tail, when his words concerning her revived the conviction that 
he loved Florimel. At the great stone basin Malcolm set the Seam 
_ swan spouting, but the sweet musical jargon of the falling water 
__ seemed almost coarse in the soundless diapason of the moonlight. 
So he stopped it again, and they strolled farther up the garden. 
‘9 Clementina venturing to remind him of the sexton-like gate. 


- 


KNOTTHD STRANDS. 381 


dener’s story of the lady and the hermit’s cave, which because of 
its Scotch, she was unable to follow, Malcolm told her now what 
John Jack had narrated, adding that the lady was his own mother, 
and that from the gardener’s tale he learned that morning at 
length how to account for the horror which had seized him on his 
- first entering the cave, as also for his father’s peculiar carriage on 
that occasion: doubtless he then caught a likeness in him to his 
mother. He then recounted the occurrence circumstantially. 

“T have ever since felt ashamed of the weakness,” he con- 
cluded: “but at this moment I believe I could walk in with 
perfect coolness.” 

“We won't try it to-night,” said Clementina, and once more 
turned him from the place, reverencing the shadow he had 
brought with him from the spirit of his mother. 

They walked and sat and talked in the moonlight, for how long 
neither knew ; and when the moon went behind the trees on the 
cliff, and the valley was left in darkness, but a darkness that — 
seemed alive with the new day soon to be born, they sat yet, lost — 
in a peaceful unveiling of hearts, till a sudden gust of wind roused 
Malcolm, and looking up he saw that the stars were clouded, and 
knew that the chill of the morning was drawing near. 

He kept that chamber just as it was ever after, and often retired 
to it for meditation. He never restored the ruinous parts of the 
stair, and he kept the door at the top carefully closed. But he 
cleared out the rubbish that choked the place where the stair had 
led lower down, came upon it again in tolerable preservation a 
little beneath, and followed it into a passage that ran under the 
burn, appearing to lead in the direction of the cave behind the 
Baillies’ Barn. Doubtless there was some foundation for the 
legend of Lord Gernon. 

There, however, he abandoned the work, thinking of the 
possibility of a time when employment would be scarce, and his 
people in want of all he could give them. And when such a time 
arrived, as arrive it did before they had been two years married, 
a far more important undertaking was found needful to employ 
the many who must earn or starve. Then it was that Clementina 
had the desire of her heart, and began to lay out the money she 
had been saving for the purpose, in rebuilding the ancient Castle 
of Colonsay. Its vaults were emptied of rubbish and ruin, the 
rock faced afresh, walls and towers and battlements raised, until 
at last, when the loftiest tower seemed to have reached its height, 
it rose yet higher, and blossomed in radiance ; for, topmost crown 
of all, there, flaming far into the northern night, shone a splendid — 
beacon-lamp, to guide the fisherman when his way was hid. 


382 THE MARQUIS OF LOSSIE. 


Every summer for years, Florimel and her husband spent weal | 


in the castle, and many a study the painter made there of the 
ever-changing face of the sea. 

Malcolm, as he well might, had such a strong feeling of the 
power for good of every high-souled schoolmaster, that nothing 
would serve him but Mr Graham must be reinstated. He told 
the presbytery that if it were not done, he would himself build a 
school-house for him, and the consequence, he said, needed no 
prediction. Finding, at the same time, that the young man they 
had put in his place was willing to act as his assistant, he proposed 
that he should keep the cottage, and all other emoluments of the 
office, on the sole condition that, when he found he could no 
longer conscientiously and heartily further the endeavours of Mr 
Graham, he should say so; whereupon the marquis would 
endeavour to procure him another appointment; and on these 
understandings the thing was arranged. 

Mr Graham thenceforward lived in the House, a spiritual 
father to the whole family, reverenced by all, ever greeted with 
gladness, ever obeyed. ‘The spiritual dignity and simplicity, the 


fine sense and delicate feeling of the man, rendered him a saving 


presence in the place; and Clementina felt as if one of the 
ancient prophets, blossomed into a Christian, was the glory of 
their family and house. Like a perfect daughter, she watched 


him, tried to discover preferences of which he might not himself 


be aware, and often waited upon him with her own hands. 

There was an ancient building connected with the house, 
divided now for many years into barn and dairy, but evidently 
the chapel of the monastery: this Malcolm soon set about recon- 
verting. It made a lovely chapel—too large for the household, 
but not too large for its congregation upon Wednesday evenings, 
_when many of the fishermen and their families, and not a few of 
the inhabitants of the upper town, with occasionally several farm 
servants from the neighbourhood, assembled to listen devoutly to 
the fervent and loving expostulations and rousings, or the tender 
consolings and wise instructions of the master, as every one called 
him. The hold he had of their hearts was firm, and his influence 
on their consciences far reaching. 

When there was need of conference, or ground for any wide 
expostulation, the marquis would call a meeting in the chapel; 
but this occurred very seldom. Now and then the master, some- 
times the marquis himself, would use it for a course of lectures or 
a succession of readings from some specially interesting book ; 
and in what had been the sacristy they gathered a small library 
for the use of the neighbourhood. 


ms 


= re 
ptt 
b thie 


Pa” Fie Tow athe 
By ie Rd) ble 


KNOTTED STRANDS. 383 


No meeting was held there of a Sunday, for although the 
clergyman was the one person to whom all his life the marquis 
never came any nearer, he was not the less careful to avoid every- 
thing that might rouse contention or encourage division. “I 
find the doing of the will of God,” he would say, “leaves me no — 
time for disputing about his plans—I do not say for thinking - 
about them.” Not therefore, however, would he waive the 


- exercise of the inborn right of teaching, and anybody might come 


to the house and see the master on Sunday evenings. As to’ 
whether people went to church or stayed away, he never troubled 
himself in the least ; and no more did the schoolmaster. 

The chapel had not been long finished when he had an organ 
built in it. Lady Lossie played upon it. Almost every evening, 
at a certain hour, she played for a while; the door was always 
open, and any one who pleased might sit down and listen. 

Gradually the feeling of the community, from the strengthening 


and concentrating influence of the House, began to bear upon 


offenders; and any whose conduct had become in the least - 
flagrant soon felt that the general eye was upon them, and that 
gradually the human tide was falling from them, and leaving them 
prisoned in a rocky basin on a barren shore. But at the same 


_ time, all three of the powers at the House were watching to come 


in the moment there was a chance ; and what with the 1 marquis’s 
_ warnings, his wife’s encouragements, and the master’s expostula- 
tions, there was no little hope of the final recovery of several who 
would otherwise most likely have sunk deeper and deeper. 

The marchioness took Lizzy for her personal attendant, and 


had her boy much about her; so that by the time she had ws 


children of her own, she had some genuine and worthy notion of 
what a child was, and what could and ought to be done for the 
development of the divine germ that lay in the human egg; and ~ 


had found that the best she could do for any child, or indeed hy 


anybody, was to be good herself. 

Rose married a young fisherman, and made a brave wife fy 
mother. To the end of her days she regarded the marquis 
almost as a being higher than human, an angel that had found 
and saved her. 

Kelpie had a foal, and, apparently in consequence, grew so 
much more gentle that at length Malcolm consented that — 
Clementina, who was an excellent horsewoman, should mount 


her. After a few attempts to unseat her, not of the most — 


determined kind however, Kelpie, on her part, consented to 
carry her, and ever after seemed proud of having a mistress that 
could tide. Her foal turned out a magnificent horse. Malcolm 


“for when Goblin was thirty he ‘ode him ‘still, and to ju 
_ appearances, might but for an accident have ridden him te 
“>> moore. A... 
It was not long ere people began to remark that no one t 
‘ever heard the piper utter the name Campéell. An ill-bred you 
~ once—it was well for him that Malcolm was not near—dared t 
evil word in his presence: a cloud swept across the old man’s — 
face, but he held his peace; and-to.the day of his death, which 
_ arrived in his ninety-first year, it never crossed his lips. He died 
with the Lossie pipes on his. bed, Malcolm on one side of him, 
and Clementina on the other. 
Some of my readers may care to know that Phen and Davy 
were married, and made the quaintest, oldest-fashioned little 
couple, with ‘hearts which king or beggar might oq have 
trusted. = 
Malcolm’s relations with the fisher-folk, founded as they were — 
in truth and open uprightness, were not in the least injured by — 
__ his change of position. He made ita point to be always at home 
F during the herring- ‘fishing. Whatever might be going on ee 


in Vanity Fair, called him the fisher-king : the wags called him > 
~, the king-fisher, and laughed at the oddity of his taste in preferring — 
__ what he called his duty to the pleasures of the season. But the — 
marquis found even the hen- pecked Partan a nobler and more 3 
_ elevating presence than any strutting platitude of Bond-street. 
And when he was at home, he was always about amongst the 
people. Almost every day he would look in at some door in — 
the Seaton, and call out a salutation to the busy housewife— 
perhaps go in and sit down for a minute. Now he would be 
__-walking with this one, now talking with that—oftenest with Blue 
_ Peter; and sometimes both their wives would be with them, up- 
on the’shore, or in the grounds. Nor was there a family meal to © 
which any one or all together of the six men whom he had set. 
over the Seaton and Scaurnose would not have been welcomed 
by the marquis and his Clemency. The House was head and 
heart of the whole district. . 
__ A conventional visitor was certain to feel very shruggish at 
first sight of the terms on which the marquis was with “ persons — : 
of that sort ;” Apu offen such a one came to allow that it was no 'OmeR 5 


-. KNOTTED STRANDS. ~ 385 


and, notwithstanding his atrocious training, the marquis was 
after all a very good sort of fellow—considering. 

_ In the third year he launched a strange vessel. Her ton- 
nage was two hundred, but she was built like a fishing-boat. 
She had great stowage forward and below: if there was a large 
take, boat after boat could empty its load into her, and go back 
and draw its nets again. But this was not the original design 


~~ in her. 


The after half of her deck was parted off with a light rope-rail, 
was kept as white as holystone could make it, and had a brass- 
railed bulwark. She was steered with a wheel, for more room; 


_ the top of the binnacle was made sloping, to serve as a lectern ; 


there were seats all round the bulwarks ; and she was called the 
Clemency. 

For more than two years he had provided training for the 
fittest youths he could find amongst the fishers, and now he had 
a pretty good band playing on wind instruments, able to give 
back to God a shadow of his own music. ‘The same formed the 
Clemency’s crew. And every Sunday evening the great fishing- 
boat with the marquis, and almost always the marchioness on 
board, and the latter never without a child or children, led out 
from the harbour such of the boats as were going to spend the 
night on the water. 

When they reached the ground, all the other boats gathered 
about the great boat, and the chief men came on board, and 
Malcolm stood up betwixt the wheel and the binnacle, and read 
-—always from the gospel, and generally words of Jesus, and 
talked to them, striving earnestly to get the truth alive into their 
hearts. ‘Then he would pray aloud to the living God, as one so 
living that they could not see him, so one with them that they 
could not behold him. When they rose from their knees, man 
after man dropped into his boat, and the fleet scattered wide over 
the waters to search them for their treasure. 

_ Then the little ones were put to bed;-and Malcolm and 

Clementina would sit on the deck, reading and talking, till the 
night fell, when they too went below, and slept in peace: But 
if ever a boat wanted help, or the slightest danger arose, the 
first thing was to call the marquis, and he was on deck in a 
moment. 

In the morning, when a few of the boats had gathered, they 
_ would make for the harbour again, but now with full blast. of 
_ praising trumpets and horns, the waves seeming to dance to the 
well-ordered noise divine. Or if the wind was contrary, or no 
wind blew, the lightest-laden of the boats would take the Clemency 

2B 


Dick to the fete 
For such Monday mornings, Her marquis wrote a little s n 

| and his Clemency made an air to it, and harmonized it for 

; ape Here is the last stanza of it :— on.” 


Wainer Gob. Like the fish that brought the coin, 
Bos We in ministry will join— 
. Bring what pleases Ae the best $ 
= Ev Help from each to all the rest, 


_s 


> 


S 
~ 
a 
x 
¥ 


ome 


%, a 


a 
Sy 


RAN Sh SN SSS 
\~ \ 


~~ \ \ . 
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SS AC AN S 
SS 


